noon.

Some country lads and lasses paid us a visit, and by mutual consent we adjourned to the swing. Here it became so evident that he would swing no one but me, that I had to submit to no little teasing; but Harry has so much tact in returning the complimont, that my blushes passed unnoticed. How delightful it is to have a witty companion! I laugh so much all day that my face is in a perpetual grin. If the offer were to come now, I should certainly not say no.

October 27th. How I wish people could be quiet, sometimes! I was reading such a pathetic story to-day, and Harry came with one of his everlasting puns. I had to laugh, though I was very angry, because I was just preparing to cry. That fellow is ridiculous, sometimes. He has very pretty teeth, however.

October 30th. I am beginning to tire of Harry's perpetual puns. As somebody says, "he seizes your honest words, and turns them into traitors before your eyes." Honest words, sad words, kind words, or hard words, it makes no difference to him. And then he is continually scraping up all kind of queer sayings and funny anecdotes, with which he favors me during our evening walks. He has not much depth, that same Harry; all is froth, and, to use a preserving simile, "scum." I wish our month's sojourn were ended.

November 3d, I have kept my room to-day, pleading sickness. And truly I am sick, but it is of Harry. I hate the sound of his voice, and the perpetual glitter of those ivories. I hear his "ha! ha! ha!" even now. My illness does not cause him much uneasiness. How I dread that offer! I know it is coming, and that speedily, for my aunt and Mrs. Churchill are continually talking about it.

November 4th. I was very rude to-day, but I could not help it. Harry came to the door this morning, and begged to be admitted; "it was so pitch dark down stairs without me," he said.

My aunt opened the door and disappeared. Harry came bounding in, and, throwing himself on the floor at my feet, began talking away in his usual style as fast as his tongue could run. After rattling away for some time, he suddenly stopped, blushed, and was silent for some moments. Then, seeing him twist his mouth all possible ways, as if he tried to say something serious, but didn't know how, and just as he pronounced the word "Ka-Katy," I sprang from the sofa and ran out of the room. I flew down the garden-walk, and over the fence, and never rested until I threw myself into the swing. Nor did I leave it until I saw Harry go out of the house and take the road to the village. I dread meeting Harry again. Luckily, the two old ladies know nothing of my flight, or I should not escape so easily.

November 5th. I breakfasted in my room this morning, but knowing I should not be safe from Harry there, I took an early opportunity to run off into the orchard. "He will not seek me here,"

thought I; but I was mistaken, for I soon saw him coming desperately in that direction. "If I can but get up a tree, I can hide." So I scrambled up, with great difficulty, into a huge apple-tree; but lo! Harry had seen me, and was making directly towards me. I thought I must get down; I never could be caught up the tree; so down I came; but my foot slipping, horrible to relate, I fell right into Harry's arms!

"Now I have you!" he exclaimed, and burst into a roguish laugh.

Then, without further hesitation, he poured forth such declarations of love and everlasting fidelity, that I was almost stunned.

As soon as I could speak, for, with the fright, the fall, and the declaration, I was wellnigh dumb-foundered, I disengaged myself from his grasp, and uttering a calm "No, sir!" made the best of my way homewards.

When I reached my room, there was my aunt extended on the floor, with an open letter beside her. Involuntarily I glanced my eye over it, and what was my horror to find that she was now penniless! A fire had destroyed all of her property in the city, which was uninsured, and a scamp of an agent had run off with the money she had in bank.

A physician was summoned, as my aunt still lay insensible, and he pronounced it an attack of paralysis. The undue excitement caused by the letter, acting upon an already enfeebled frame, has prostrated her thus. She has somewhat recovered from her stupor, but her speech is entirely gone. I am almost distracted. A helpless invalid and poverty; and I must be hands and head both, in this unlooked-for catastrophe. A knock at the door. It is a note from Harry. He begs pardon for intruding at such a moment, but cannot help writing to assure me that the events of the morning have but increased his desire of cherishing and protecting me. He was rude and abrupt this morning, and perchance I deemed it presumption in him to aspire to the heiress's hand; but now he longs to offer me a home and a husband, when my only protector seems about to be taken away.

He is a noble fellow; this note has shown me how disinterested is his love; but still I cannot return it: I do not love him as I once dreamed. I never can wed one of his character, for there is little sympathy between us.

November 6th. My plans are formed; I leave for the city to-morrow. Mrs. Churchill has offered my aunt a home until I can remove her to town. The good old lady grieves very much; she whispered to me, "I had hoped, my dear, this house would be your home always; but Harry tells me it may not be."

Harry's spirits seem quite subdued. I had a long talk with him this morning, and he is now satisfied that my decision is irrevocable. He drives me to the city to-morrow.

November 7th. I have been busy to-day, very. It was early morning when we entered the town, and we drove immediately to the residence of Mr. Marshall, an old friend of my aunt's. By his advice, I dismissed all my aunt's servants, excepting old Biddy, a faithful Irish woman, whom I retain to nurse my aunt. I have also arranged the furniture and plate for the great sale which takes place day after to-morrow. I intend taking a couple of rooms, in a quiet street, and as I have quite a talent for music, I hope to maintain myself and aunt by giving lessons. Mrs. Marshall has promised me a number of pupils; and, as I have an income of one hundred dollars, I think we shall do very well.

November 10th. I have succeeded in procuring two very pleasant rooms in B- Street. I have fitted up the room fronting the street as a sort of parlor. My huge piano looks rather out of place in such a small apartment; but, as old Biddy quaintly observes, "it wull take the less fire to warm it." The adjoining room is for my aunt. I did not forget the stuffed cat, which, I believe, was a pet kitten of her lover's, in days of yore. I have retained but little of her gorgeous furniture, but I could not resist appropriating one luxurious chair, which well deserves the name of "Sleepy Hollow." To-morrow I bring my aunt home, and the next day I begin with my pupils, of whom I already have nine. How I hope I may succeed!

November 17th. I have now been a week in this novel situation. I do not find it irksome as yet, but am often reminded of the proverb "a new broom sweeps clean." My aunt's disposition has greatly changed since this last attack. Not that she has become any kinder or more loving, but the "haughty Miss Elliot" is now merged in the peevish, childish invalid. She still finds fault with me, still murmurs at everything I do to assist her; but her mind is so evidently gone that her reproofs do not trouble me now. A spirit of contradiction seems to have taken possession of her; when the weather is mild, she insists upon a fire, and when to-day it is so cold that I have worn a shawl in the house, the windows must be all flung open. Her only pleasure appears to be in listening to the music, of which she is very fond; and the door between the rooms must always be open.

November 20th. I am wearied almost to death. My head aches so I could scarcely see the notes, and my aunt grows every day more fretful and discontented. She has taken to screaming lately, and really sometimes I am afraid she will alarm the neighbors. She cries all day long, wishes she were dead, and accuses me of poisoning her. She says old Biddy tries to strangle her every night with the nightcap. It were far better to die than to drag out existence thus.

My pupils, too, are not so obedient and amiable as they at first appeared. How soon children learn to ape their elders! My pupils evidently hear at

home, that I am a degraded creature, fit only to minister to the pleasure of those who formerly flattered and caressed me so. Their mothers appear to have forgotten that "Miss Elliot," the pale music teacher, was once on a par with them in gentility, and far beyond them in wealth. I hear no more of "my dear creature," or "my charming Katy," now.

November 25th. I received an offer to-day, which surprised me not a little. Old Mr. Marshall, who visits us frequently, and has seen innumerable displays of my aunt's childishness and troublesome whims, is exceedingly desirous to remove her to an asylum, about three miles from the city. It is expressly for "reduced gentlewomen" in her situation; they are faithfully nursed and cared for, and it is as unlike a hospital or almshouse as possible. Mr. Marshall says I have too much on my shoulders; that I cannot stand it; but he has no patience with my aunt, and takes a prejudiced view of the case. But I have steadfastly refused the proposition. I am beginning to exercise, I trust, a little of that charity which "suffereth long and is kind," and I cannot desert my aunt in her hour of adversity. She is so utterly dependent upon me for the most trifling assistance, that I cannot turn her over to a stranger. It was a strong temptation, however, for my aunt's worrying ways have almost worn me out. Indolence whispered that my aunt knew not, nor cared whence food and warmth came, if they were but supplied, and at the asylum she would have attentive nurses, more skilful than rough old Biddy; that she would not miss me much, as she hated me so; that I would have so much more leisure if she were away -I could rest from my constant labors, and the headache would probably vanish. That last was a powerful argument, for this dull, heavy pain in my brow seems to crush out all vivacity, and even all thought. I stood firm, though, and Mr. Marshall left the house no little displeased that I, a weak youngster, should resist the pleadings and arguments of an "old graybeard," for so he styles himself.

December 1st. I had just thrown myself on the bed, at my aunt's side, this afternoon, and had closed my eyes for a few minutes' nap, when old Biddy opened the door, and informed me a gentleman wanted to see me in the parlor. A gentleman! Instantly visions of Lewis Carlton, returnod, repentant, to claim my hand, thronged my mind as I hastily smoothed my hair and arranged my collar. But when I entered the parlor, the young clergyman rose to meet me. The little deformed girl was at his side. He begged pardon for the intrusion, and explained in a few words the occasion of his visit. He was going as a missionary to India, he said, and knowing no one to intrust little Ellen to during his absence, had taken the liberty of seeking me, to beg me to be a mother to her. He had heard of our altered circumstances, and if it would not be convenient for me to take her, he could perhaps find

in a low tone," she is so refined and intelligent, I should dread to see her in that capacity, and I think you would be rewarded for your care in her dutiful affection, and happy, joyous spirit."

I paused a moment to consult Mr. Judgment, a very potent adviser of late. It would be trouble, certainly; and my means were not so very ample just now; but the child's looks pleased me-I wanted to do a kind action, and oblige the young clergyman-so I consented.

Then-for he seemed kind and gentle-I opened my heart to him. I told him how wearied I was of earth; how I longed and yet dreaded to die; how the chalice of disappointment was ever at my lips, and how bitter was the draught. I told him of Walter's warning, and how it had been forgotten in the excitement and splendor around me. I told him of the yearnings after something higher and nobler, that filled my breast. That there was a void in my heart which earthly love could not fill-and would he tell me of heavenly love?

The young clergyman paused for a moment; then, taking my hand and looking full in my face with his dark earnest eyes, he told me of a heavenly love. He bade me look beyond this scene of sorrow to a brighter world, where the "wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." He urged me to live in the shadow of the cross; to fix my eye upon a crucified Redeemer, and to press onwards and upwards. He bade me remember this world was but the trial-scene which would decide my weal or woe for an eternity. I have talents-let me improve them; influence-let me exert it. I was yet in the morning of life, and what an incalculable amount of good might I accomplish during my threescore years and ten!

Taking a small Bible from his pocket, he marked a verse with his pencil, and laid it in my lap. Then, invoking a blessing upon me and the little orphan, he wrung my hand warmly, and left the room. I opened the volume, and read through my

tears:

"Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in Heaven."

June 31st, 184-. It is one year to-day since I made the first entry in my journal. But how changed from the vain, giddy girl, who then penned down her fond anticipations of earth! I blush in reading over the records of my thoughts, to see the air-castles I built; the dreams I had-and of naught beyond this world. I was dreaming, indeed.

But I am wide awake now, and awake, I trust, to a deeper sense of life's realities, of its mysteries. Now I try to live for others; and my happiness flows from within. I can be cheerful, nay, even gay, in my humble home, although no" dark-eyed youth' is at my side, and no poet-lover bends over me. Neither do I hasten to "shuffle off this mortal coil,"

for, though I long earnestly and ardently for the spirit-land, I am so very busy and so very happy. in my narrow sphere, that I have no time and no mind to repine. Once I longed to be "beneath the sod," and thought earth was so dark and dreary; but now all nature smiles on me. The skies and the flowers tell of peace and purity, and the birds sing of happiness; and my being seems to harmonize with the birds and the flowers.

I have not been without trials, for my aunt was very ill last winter, and my scanty means well nigh failed; but now the dark cloud is removed, and Ellen and I can sing our cheerful songs once more. Truly, it is "more blessed to give than to receive." Ellen was, indeed, a treasure to me last winter. She alone could soothe my aunt to repose. She lightened old Biddy's labors, and, when I would come home from my scholars, wearied and disheartened, she would throw her arms around me, and speak words of hope to my fainting soul. And often now when my temples throb and my heart beats wildly, I hear her ringing laugh and gentle tones, and I am encouraged and strengthened.

I have to treat my aunt just like a child. She is a perfect infant in her helplessness and confiding simplicity, and I tell her of God and her Saviour as I would a child of four years old. To my great joy, she appears to understand me; for, when I speak of "heavenly things," her face brightens, and she presses my hand. Her pride has all gone, and in its stead are peace and innocence.

May every maiden who dreams of love, when her slumbers are broken, have as blissful a waking as Katy Elliot's!

LINES IN MEMORY OF CLARA Z. WRIGHT, WHO DIED APRIL 29, 1852.

BY IRA L. JENKINS.

SHE dwells in blissful mansions, far above
The dazzling and resplendent orb of day;
And walks, with angels, that Elysian grove
Where glory sheds a never-ending ray.

Her brow is wreathed with roses plucked from fields
Where showers of amaranthine hue descend
Undying flowers there purest incense yield,
And love and harmony forever blend.

The angels lead her through celestial bowers
Into the shadow of their green retreat;
She drinks the nectar of unfading flowers,

And kneels in reverence at the mercy-seat.

To her I gave the first-fruits of my muse,
And saw, with joy, long-absent health return
Ungrateful heart were mine to now refuse

To plant her virtues deep in memory's urn.
Not mine to dress in sable weeds her bier,

Nor mine to break the seal of love divine; But mine to pay the tribute of a tear,

And lead the muse to friendship's hallowed shrine

CHAPTER I.

THE following sketch was not penned to show to thee, gracious reader, that Vanity Fair is open only in the town, or that the Valley of Humiliation lies always where one may see green fields, meandering brooks, and quiet flocks. But this-that, however strong may be our predisposition for the indulgence of any passion-vanity, for instance-this passion's growth and activity depend, sometimes at least, less upon the struggles we may make, or neglect to make, than upon the social position we find ourselves occupying. It may be now that some pale metaphysician will lay his finger-point upon the old tome he is reading, and, lifting his large, cold eye, say, slowly and impressively: "That is not virtue, child, which comes along to us of its own accord. Freedom from vanity is not a virtue, when there are no conflicts for us, no lions in the way of its attainment." We will lay our hand on our heart at this, and bend our heads, and say, "Perhaps, sir;" but go on admiring humility, and love, and every Christian grace, whether its growth is spontaneous and free, and in those places where no weeds spring up to choke it, or among rocks and tares, which make its growth the result of watchfulness and toil.

"Ah, my very fine cousin! So you have conquered uncle; your boudoir is indeed elegant; and now tell me how much happier you are."

"Why, a vast deal, I do assure you. But now, Carl, pray don't grow sarcastic. All bluestockings do, I believe; and for this very reason will I always pray the graces to keep me from Minerva. Look, now, ma cousine; there, I will throw down my curtain. What a beautiful light one gets through rich purple curtains! I never could endure my white ones; but now don't you think that my boudoir is, in the ensemble, more splendid even than Miss Vane's? Only she has a Psyche, if I only had a Psyche! But we shall see. I have a Hebe, you see; beautiful, isn't it? but then only in China; and pa is rich enough for anything; and I his only child! I think it a pity-ha, Caroline, just look out! 'Tis Serena Mercer in her '33 chaly, and that old capote of hers, and the very aloes it bore last year." "And all this is- 99

"Why, yes, well enough; for I know this is what you would say; well enough for Serena. She does not care a fig what she wears; and, pardonnez moi, you are like her in this thing; and I believe this is the reason that everybody feels and says: "Well,

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it is all right, after all, in Miss Mercer and Caroline Norris, they are so-so independent!""

"So-so proverbially odd-do they not say this sometimes, Susan ?" asked Caroline, smiling.

"In truth, they do. And we fashionable butterflies always add-'But now I-' as we look complacently down upon our robe of gaze fleur des anges, or our pelisse of gros princesse, or our scarf of gaze sylphide. The gentlemen have the gallantry to temper their admiration by adding-'But-yetafter all, these severe beauties are rather-rather too independent and cold. We would ask more human frailty, more"

"Susan! more human frailty?" "

"Yes! yes, Caroline! Frank Vane actually said this one day, in one of his stupid rhapsodies; more human frailty!" he said; 'more softness, more deference to la mode;' and then he said 'Ha, ha, ha' and 'He, he, he """

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"Never! no, never!" sang Susan. "But let this be entre nous; and yet, I suppose 'tis of no use courting secrecy; one might just as well put it in the "Herald," and "Mirror;" for Miss Vane will look on one side of the screen, and then on me, and say: 'This screen, Miss Susan-how could you find time and patience to make anything so elaborate?' I would smile, and show her the border of my handkerchief, which I had purposely been tearing, and say, 'See, Miss Vane! one might just as well buy Lisle edgings, as that cheap thread-stuff of Lawrence and Smith. Don't you think it miserable?' She would say yes;' but still keep her eyes on my screen; and at length ask, in her desperate, disagreeable, hesitating way, 'This screen, Miss Susan-'tis beautiful! how could you-did you make it? Didn't I catch just her tone, and look, and manner, Caroline? And she would touch the tip of her lilac glove like this."

"Perhaps so; but-."

"Nay! now, no lecture, if you please. I am not in the mood for it this morning. There comes the Lanes' carriage! I am vexed when I think of it

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You know how intimate Abby and I used to be. And-would you believe it?-since they moved and set up their own carriage, they never call here. The last time I saw Abby, I met her in Broadway, and such a lofty bow! It was a mere toss like this; it had one advantage; it set her feathers to glancing finely."

"But, Susan, pray don't talk in this way, and mimic people," said Caroline, with a pained look. "It is beautiful out this morning. Let us take a long ramble. I long to go where we can feel the clear country air. Is that your bell?" "Yes, the Lanes have stopped. See! they have put livery upon their servants. See the coachman's silver hatband! Isn't it meet that one open one's eyes and mouth thus, and hold one's breath thus? Nay! don't scold, ma cousine !"

"Your deshabille, Susan! let me help you dress, quick."

"Why, child, they have only left their card; and now away they roll. Let me see if they call on the Dodds. No, I was quite sure they would not. Ha! I will tell you about it. They called on Mrs. Dodd once after moving into their new house. The morning room was full of visitors; and among them were Esquire Lawton, his lady, and their hopeful, then just returned from Europe, you know; and with them several distingue people from Washington, relatives of theirs. And so the Lanes set about protruding themselves. Mrs. Lane talked learnedly about Palmo's, and Niblo's, and Socrates, and Diogenes, relating with a great deal of enthusiasm historical anecdotes familiar as A, B, C to most school-girls of these times at twelve. But poor Mrs. Lane has just been seized with literature, it seems; and so she fancies everybody in the very ignorance from which she is emerging. Mr. Lane strutted across the drawing-room, put one arm beneath the skirt of his coat, tumbled over the contents of a card-basket, and apropos, as he said, began to talk about Wall Street, stocks, exchange, Great Britain, and France. And the innocent little Abby-you know she was Abigail three years ago was fluttering about, protruding her black slipper, putting her hand and wrist into all sorts of curvatures, by touching the tip of her forefinger to her lip, or dipping it about in the mazes of a huge bouquet she bore, or touching papa or mamma's shoulder, by way of calling their thoughts from exchange and Socrates to a bruised flower in her bouquet, or a pretty eye, or a foot, or a pretty something in some plates she had purchased while out. Mrs. Dodd was so disgusted! especially when, at last, they dragged in opportunities of saying our new house,' Vesey Street,' 'our carriage,' and 'our domestics.' So she said, with that enviable nonchalance of which she is such a perfect mistress: 'You must be delighted with your change of residence, Mrs. Lane. Bowery, and particularly Bowery pro

per, where you resided so long, is such an ultima thule sort of place! This was a temporary damper,' Mrs. Dodd says; but they soon rallied; and again it was our last dinner, our best friend Chancellor Norton, and our carriage.' And then Mrs. Dodd said: You must find it pleasant to command a carriage of your own, Mr. Lane, after hiring so long. Yours was a great bargain, too; we paid twice as much for our last one; oh! I recollect-yours was a second or third-hand.' This was a wholesome dose for their vanity. There was no more of it; but, quite crestfallen, they took leave, and have not repeated their call, and Mrs. Dodd is glad of it. Oh! there is nothing I hate as I do un parvenue. Don't you despise one, Caroline ?"

"Oh dear! Susan, I do not know what I do. You have talked so long, so fast, and about so many things, I should think you would be completely bewildered. Come, now, let us go to your room. I will help you to dress, and then we will go where we can see trees, and the blue sky, and the sea! Oh, I long to breathe a clearer, cooler air! Come."

"Well-or, dear Carl, I will ring for Mary, and you sit here meanwhile and try my guitar; I have just got it home from Bullard's, where it has been under repair. See if it is not elegant now. And the sounds! you have no idea. My latest songs are below; but here are 'The Tyrolese Fortune-Teller,' and 'Away we bound o'er the deep,' and I don't know what else.

'Away! away we bound over the deep; Lightly, brightly our merry hearts leap; Homeward we sail to the land of our love, By the star-light beacon shining above,'"

sang the giddy creature, as she gave her bell-rope a jerk; and then, going backwards, she bowed and courtesied herself out of the room.

"Oh dear!" sighed Caroline, turning to the guitar; and the faint smile with which she met the parting salutations of her graceful cousin gave way to an expression of real sorrow. She saw with other eyes than Susan's. For her, the excessive thoughtlessness and vanity of her cousin, half destroying, as they did, all the advantages of her naturally clear understanding and good heart; the hollow, ridiculous pretensions of the Lanes, militating against the republican spirit of our institutions, and turning their rapidly accumulating property to such low purposes; the artful and malicious taunts of Mrs. Dodd, notwithstanding an education, a position in society, and religious professions which ought to have placed her far indeed above such a mode of rebuke and reform; all these, their causes and their legitimate results on individuals and on society, were full of the most heart-sickening influences. Oh that they were wise! would that she might do them good in some way! And the whole world-if she might only go, and in the ear, and to the heart of the giddy, whis