WE must leave Marston wending his way for the old plantation, and pass to another phase of this complicated affair. In doing this, we must leave the reader to draw from his own imagination much that must have transpired previous to the present incidents.

The Rovero family-old and distinguished-had struggled against the misfortunes brought upon them by their son Lorenzo. Deeply involved, they had allowed their difficulties to go on till they had found themselves living by the favour of courtesy and indulgence. Lorenzo and Franconia were only children; and since the departure of the former the latter had been the idol of their indulgence. She was, as we have before said, delicate, sensitive, endowed with generous impulses, and admired for her gentleness, grace, and vivacity. To these she added firmness, and, when once resolved upon any object, could not be moved from her purpose. Nor was she-as is the popular fallacy of the South-susceptible to the influence of wealth. Her love and tenderness soared above it; she prized wealth less than moral worth. But she could not appease the pride of her parents with her feelings. They, labouring under the influence of their reduced fortunes, had favoured and insisted upon the advances of the very wealthy Colonel M'Carstrow, a rice-planter, who had a few years before inherited a large estate. The colonel is a sturdy specimen of the Southern gentleman, which combines a singular mixture of qualities, some of which are represented by a love of good living, good drinking, good horse-racing, good gambling, and fast company. He lives on the fat of the land, because the fat of the land was made for him to enjoy. He has no particular objection to anybody in the world, providing they believe in slavery, and live according to his notions of a gentleman. His soul's delight is faro, which he would not exchange for all the religion in the world; he has strong doubts about the good of religion, which, he says, should be boxed up with modern morality.

Laying these things aside, however, he is anything but what would have been properly selected as a partner for Franconia; and, while she is only eighteen, he has turned the corner of his forty-third year. In a word, his manners are unmodelled, his feelings coarse, his associations of the worst kind; nor is he adapted to make the happiness of domestic life lasting. He is one of those persons so often met with, whose affections-if they may be supposed to have any-are held in a sort of compromise between an incitement to love, and their natural inclination to revel in voluptuous pleasures. The two being antagonistic at times, the latter is sure to be the stronger, and not unfrequently carries its victim into dissolute extremes. Riches, however, will always weigh heavy in the scale; their possession sways,—the charm of gold is precious and powerful. And, too, the colonel had another attraction-very much esteemed among slave-dealers and owners—he had a military title, though no one knew how he came by it.

Franconia must be the affianced bride of the supposed wealthy Colonel M'Carstrow; so say her parents, who feel they are being crushed out by misfortune. It is their desire; and, however repulsive it may be to Franconia's feelings, she must accept the man: she must forget his years, his habits, his associations, for the wealth he can bring to the relief of the family.

To add ‚clat to the event, it is arranged that the nuptial ceremony shall take place in the spacious old mansion of General P—, in the city. General P—is a distant relation of the Rovero family. His mansion is one of those noble old edifices, met here and there in the South—especially in South Carolina-which strongly mark the grandeur of their ancient occupants. It is a massive pile of marble, of mixed style of Grecian and Doric architecture, with three stories divided by projecting trellised arbours, and ornamented with fluted columns surmounted with ingeniously-worked and sculptured capitals, set off with grotesque figures. The front is ornamented with tablets of bas-relief, variegated and chaste. These are bordered with scroll-work, chases of flowers, graces, and historical designs. Around the lower story, palisades and curvatures project here and there between the divisions, forming bowers shaded by vines and sweet-scented blossoms. These are diffusing their fragrance through the spacious halls and corridors beneath. The stately old pile wears a romantic appearance; but it has grown brown with decay, and stands in dumb testimony of that taste and feeling which prevailed among its British founders. The garden in which it stands, once rich with the choicest flowers of every clime, now presents an area overgrown with rank weeds, decaying hedges, dilapidated walks, and sickly shrubbery. The hand that once nurtured this pretty scene of buds and blossoms with so much care has passed away. Dull inertness now hangs its lifeless festoons over the whole, from the vaulted hall to the iron railing enclosing the whole.

The day for consummating the nuptial ceremony has arrived; many years have passed since the old mansion witnessed such a scene. The gay, wealthy, and intelligent of the little fashionable world will be here. The spell of loneliness in which the old walls have so long slept will be broken. Sparkling jewels, bland smiles, the rich decorations of former years, are to again enhance the scene. Exhausted nature is to shake off its monotony, to be enlivened with the happiness of a seemingly happy assemblage. A lovely bride is to be showered with smiles, congratulations, tokens of love. Southern gallantry will doff its cares, put on its smiling face. Whatever may smoulder beneath, pleasure and gaiety will adorn the surface.

Franconia sits in her spacious chamber. She is arrayed in flowing n‚glig‚; a pensive smile invades her countenance; she supports her head on her left hand, the jewels on her tiny fingers sparkling though her hair. Everything round her bears evidence of comfort and luxury; the gentle breeze, as it sweeps through the window to fan her blushing cheek, is impregnated with sweetest odours. She contemplates the meeting of him who is to be the partner of her life; can she reconcile it? Nay, there is something forcing itself against her will. Her bridesmaids,—young, gay, and accomplished,—gather around her. The fierce conflict raging in her bosom discloses itself; the attempt to cheer her up, under the impression that it arises from want of vigour to buoy up her sensitive system, fails. Again she seems labouring under excitement.

"Franconia!" exclaims one, taking her by the hand, "is not the time approaching?"

"Time always approaches," she speaks: her mind has been wandering, picturing the gloomy spectacle that presents itself in Clotilda's cell. She moves her right hand slowly across her brow, casts an enquiring glance around the room, then at those beside her, and changes her position in the chair. "The time to have your toilet prepared-the servants await you," is the reply. Franconia gathers strength, sits erect in her chair, seems to have just resolved upon something. A servant hastens into her presence bearing a delicately-enveloped note. She breaks the seal, reads it and re-reads it, holds it carelessly in her hand for a minute, then puts it in her bosom. There is something important in the contents, something she must keep secret. It is from Maxwell. Her friend evinced some surprise, while waiting a reply as she read the letter.

"No! not yet," she says, rising from her chair and sallying across the room. "That which is forced upon me-ah! I cannot love him. To me there is no loving wealth. Money may shelter; but it never moves hearts to love truly. How I have struggled against it!" Again she resumes her chair, weeps. Her tears gush from the parent fountain-woman's heart. "My noble uncle in trouble, my dear brother gone; yes! to where, and for what, I dare not think; and yet it has preyed upon me through the struggle of pride against love. My father may soon follow; but I am to be consigned to the arms of one whom it would be folly to say I respect."

Her friend, Miss Alice Latel, reminds her that it were well not to let such melancholy wanderings trouble her. She suggests that the colonel, being rich, will fill the place of father as well as husband; that she will be surrounded by the pleasures which wealth only can bring, and in this world what more can be desired?

"Such fathers seldom make affectionate husbands; nor do I want the father without the husband; his wealth would not make me respect him." Franconia becomes excited, giving rapid utterance to her language. "Can I suppress my melancholy-can I enjoy such pleasure, and my dear Clotilda in a prison, looking through those galling gratings? Can I be happy when the anguish of despair pierces deep into her heart? No! oh, no! Never, while I think of her, can I summon resolution to put on a bridal robe. Nay! I will not put them on without her. I will not dissemble joy while she sinks in her prison solitude!"

"Can you mean that-at this hour?" enquires Miss Alice, looking upon her with anxiety pictured in her face. One gives the other a look of surprise. Miss Alice must needs call older counsel.

"Yes!" replies Franconia, more calm; "even at this hour! It is never too late to serve our sisters. Could I smile-could I seem happy, and so many things to contemplate? We cannot disguise them now; we cannot smother scandal with a silken mantle. Clotilda must be with me. Negro as she is by law, she is no less dear to me. Nor can I yield to those feelings so prominent in southern breasts,—I cannot disclaim her rights, leave her the mere chattel subject of brute force, and then ask forgiveness of heaven!" This declaration, made in a positive tone, at once disclosed her resolution. We need not tell the reader with what surprise it took the household; nor, when she as suddenly went into a violent paroxysm of hysterics, the alarm it spread.

The quiet of the mansion has changed for uproar and confusion. Servants are running here and there, getting in each other's way, blocking the passages, and making the confusion more intense. Colonel M'Carstrow is sent for, reaches the mansion in great consternation, expects to find Franconia a corpse, for the negro messenger told him such a crooked story, and seemed so frightened, that he can't make anything straight of it-except that there is something very alarming.

She has been carried to one of the ante-chambers, reclines on a couch of softest tapestry, a physician at one side, and Alice, bathing her temples with aromatic liquid, on the other. She presents a ravishing picture of delicacy, modesty, and simplicity,—of all that is calmly beautiful in woman. "I can scarcely account for it; but, she's coming to," says the man of medicine, looking on mechanically. Her white bosom swells gently, like a newly-waked zephyr playing among virgin leaves; while her eyes, like melancholy stars, glimmer with the lustre of her soul. "Ah me!" she sighs, raising her hand over her head and resting it upon the cushion, as her auburn hair floats, calm and beautiful, down her pearly shoulder.

The colonel touches her hand; and, as if it had been too rudely, she draws it to her side, then places it upon her bosom. Again raising her eyes till they meet his, she blushes. It is the blush of innocence, that brightens beneath the spirit of calm resolution. She extends her hand again, slowly, and accepts his. "You will gratify me-will you not?" she mutters, attempting to gain a recumbent position. They raise her as she intimates a desire; she seems herself again.

"Whatever your wish may be, you have but to intimate it," replies the colonel, kissing her hand.

"Then, I want Clotilda. Go, bring her to me; she only can wait on me; and I am fond of her. With her I shall be well soon; she will dress me. Uncle will be happy, and we shall all be happy."

"But," the colonel interrupts, suddenly, "where is she to be found?"

"In the prison. You'll find her there!" There is little time to lose,—a carriage is ordered, the colonel drives to the prison, and there finds the object of Franconia's trouble. She, the two children at her side, sits in a cell seven by five feet; the strong grasp of slave power fears itself, its tyranny glares forth in the emaciated appearance of its female victim. The cell is lighted through a small aperture in the door, which hangs with heavy bolts and bars, as if torturing the innocent served the power of injustice. The prison-keeper led the way through a narrow passage between stone walls. His tap on the door startles her; she moves from her position, where she had been seated on a coarse blanket. It is all they (the hospitable southern world, with its generous laws) can afford her; she makes it a bed for three. A people less boastful of hospitality may give her more. She holds a prayer-book in her hand, and motions to the children as they crouch at her feet.

"Come, girl! somebody's here to see you," says the keeper, looking in at the aperture, as the sickly stench escapes from the dark cavern-like place.

Nervously, the poor victim approaches, lays her trembling hand on the grating, gives a doubting glance at the stranger, seems surprised, anxious to know the purport of his mission.

"Am I wanted?" she enquires eagerly, as if fearing some rude dealer has come-perhaps to examine her person, that he may be the better able to judge of her market value.

Notwithstanding the coldness of M'Carstrow's nature, his feelings are moved by the womanly appearance of the wench, as he calls her, when addressing the warden. There is something in the means by which so fair a creature is reduced to merchandise he cannot altogether reconcile. Were it not for what habit and education can do, it would be repulsive to nature in its crudest state. But it is according to law, that inhuman law which is tolerated in a free country.

"I want you to go with me, and you will see your young missis," says M'Carstrow, shrugging his shoulders. He is half inclined to let his better feelings give way to sympathy. But custom and commerce forbid it; they carry off the spoil, just as the sagacious pumpkin philosopher of England admits slavery a great evil, while delivering an essay for the purpose of ridiculing emancipation.

M'Carstrow soon changes his feelings,—addresses himself to business. "Are you in here for sale?" he enquires, attempting to whistle an air, and preserve an unaffected appearance.

The question touches a tender chord of her feelings; her bosom swells with emotions of grief; he has wounded that sensitive chord upon which the knowledge of her degradation hangs. She draws a handkerchief from her pocket, wipes the tear that glistens in her eye, clasps Annette in her arms-while Nicholas, frightened, hangs by the skirts of her dress,—buries her face in her bosom, retires a few steps, and again seats herself on the blanket.

"The question is pending. If I'm right about it-and I believe I'm generally so on such cases-it comes on before the next session, fall term," says the gaoler, turning to M'Carstrow with a look of wonderful importance. The gaoler, who, with his keys, lets loose the anxieties of men, continues his learned remarks. "Notice has been served how she's free. But that kind o' twisting things to make slave property free never amounts to much, especially when a man gets where they say Marston is! Anthony Romescos has been quizzing about, and it don't take much to make such things property when he's round." The man of keys again looks very wise, runs his hand deep into the pocket of his coat, and says something about this being a great country.

"How much do you reckon her worth, my friend?" enquires M'Carstrow, exchanging a significant glance.

"Well, now you've got me. It's a point of judgment, you see. The article's rather questionable-been spoiled. There's a doubt about such property when you put it up, except a gentleman wants it; and then, I reckon, it'll bring a smart price. There's this to be considered, I reckon, though they haven't set a price on her yet, she's excellent good looking; and the young un's a perfect cherry. It'll bring a big heap one of these days."

"We won't mind that, just now, gaoler," M'Carstrow says, very complacently; "you'll let me have her tonight, and I'll return her safe in the morning."

"No, no," interposes Clotilda, mistaking M'Carstrow's object. She crouches down on the blanket, as if shrinking from a deadly assault: "let me remain, even in my cell." She draws the children to her side.

"Don't mistake me, my girl: I am a friend. I want you for Franconia Rovero. She is fond of you, you know."

"Franconia!" she exclaims with joy, starting to her feet at the sound of the name. "I do know her, dear Franconia! I know her, I love her, she loves me-I wish she was my mother. But she is to be the angel of my freedom-" Here she suddenly stopped, as if she had betrayed something.

"We must lose no time," M'Carstrow says, informing her that Franconia is that night to be his bride, and cannot be happy without seeing her.

"Bride! and cannot prepare without me," mutters the woman, seeming to doubt the reality of his statement. A thought flashes in her mind: "Franconia has not forgotten me; I will go and be Franconia's friend." And with a child-like simplicity she takes Annette by the hand, as if they were inseparable. "Can't Nicholas go, too?" she inquires.

"You must leave the child," is the cool reply. M'Carstrow attempts to draw the heavy bolt that fastens the door.

"Not so fast, if you please," the warden speaks. "I cannot permit her to leave without an order from the sheriff." He puts his hand against the door.

"She will surely be returned in the morning; I'm good for a hundred such pieces of property."

"Can't help that," interrupts the gaoler, coolly.

"But, there's my honour!"

"An article gaolers better not deal in. It may be very good commodity in some kinds of business-don't pay in ours; and then, when this kind of property is in question, it won't do to show a favour beyond the rule."

M'Carstrow is in a sad dilemma. He must relieve himself through a problem of law, which, at this late hour, brings matters to a singular point. He believes Franconia suffers from a nervous affection, as the doctors call it, and has fixed her mind upon the only object of relief. He had made no preparation for such a critical event; but there is no postponing the ceremony,—no depriving her of the indulgence. Not a moment is to be lost: he sets off, post-haste, for the sheriff's office. That functionary is well known for his crude method of executing business; to ask a favour of him would be like asking the sea to give up its dead. He is cold, methodical, unmoveable; very much opposed to anything having the appearance of an innovation upon his square rules of business.

M'Carstrow finds him in just the mood to interpose all the frigid peculiarities of his incomprehensible nature. The colonel has known him by reputation; he knows him now through a different medium. After listening to M'Carstrow's request, and comporting himself with all imaginable dignity, he runs his fingers through his hair, looks at M'Carstrow vacantly, and well nigh rouses his temper. M'Carstrow feels, as southern gentlemen are wont to feel, that his position and title are enough to ensure courtesy and a quick response. The man of writs and summonses feels quite sure that the pomp of his office is sufficient to offset all other distinctions.

"Whar' d'ye say the gal was,—in my gaol?" the sheriff inquires, with solemn earnestness, and drawling his words measuredly, as if the whole affair was quite within his line of business. The sheriff has the opportunity of making a nice little thing of it; the object to be released will serve the profits of the profession. "Gittin' that gal out yander ain't an easy thing now, 'taint! It'll cost ye 'bout twenty dollars, sartin," he adds, turning over the leaves of his big book, and running his finger down a scale of names.

"I don't care if it costs a hundred! Give me an order for her release!" M'Carstrow begins to understand Mr. Sheriff's composition, and putting his hand into his pocket, draws forth a dwenty-dollar gold piece, throws it upon the table. The effect is electric: it smooths down the surface of Mr. Sheriff's nature,—brings out the disposition to accommodate. The Sheriff's politeness now taxes M'Carstrow's power to reciprocate.

"Now, ye see, my friend," says Mr. Sheriff, in a quaint tone, "there's three fi fas on that critter. Hold a minute!" He must needs take a better glance; he runs his fingers over the page again, mutters to himself, and then breaks out into a half-musical, half-undefinable humming. "It's a snarled-up affair, the whole on't. T'll take a plaguy cunnin' lawyer to take the shine out." The sheriff pushes the piece of coin nearer the inkstand, into the centre of the table. "I feel all over like accommodatin' ye," he deigns to say; "but then t'll be so pestky crooked gettin' the thing straight." He hesitates before the wonderful difficulty,—he can't see his way straight through it. "Three fi fas! I believe I'm correct; there's one principal one, however."

"I pledge my honour for her return in the morning; and she shall be all shined up with a new dress. Her presence is imperatively necessary to-night," M'Carstrow remarks, becoming impatient.

"Two fi fas!-well, the first look looked like three. But, the principal one out of the way,—no matter." Mr. Sheriff becomes more and more enlightened on the unenlightened difficulties of the law. He remarks, touching M'Carstrow on the arm, with great seriousness of countenance, "I sees how the knot's tied. Ye know, my functions are turned t' most everything; and it makes a body see through a thing just as straight as—. Pest on't! Ye see, it's mighty likely property,—don't strike such every day. That gal 'll bring a big tick in the market-"

"Excuse me, my dear sir," M'Carstrow suddenly interrupts. "Understand me, if you please. I want her for nothing that you contemplate,—nothing, I pledge you my honour as a southern gentleman!"

"'Ah,—bless me! Well, but there's nothin' in that. I see! I see! I see!" Mr. Sheriff brightens up, his very soul seems to expand with legal tenacity. "Well, ye see, there's a question of property raised about the gal, and her young 'un, too-nice young 'un 'tis; but it's mighty easy tellin' whose it is. About the law matter, though, you must get the consent of all the plaintiff's attorneys,—that's no small job. Lawyers are devilish slippery, rough a feller amazingly, once in a while; chance if ye don't have to get the critter valued by a survey. Graspum, though's ollers on hand, is first best good at that: can say her top price while ye'd say seven," says Mr. Sheriff, maintaining his wise dignity, as he reminds M'Carstrow that his name is Cur, commonly called Mr. Cur, sheriff of the county. It must not be inferred that Mr. Cur has any of the canine qualities about him. The hour for the ceremony is close at hand. M'Carstrow, satisfied that rules of law are very arbitrary things in the hands of officials-that such property is difficult to get out of the meshes of legal technicality-that honour is neither marketable or pledgeable in such cases, must move quickly: he seeks the very conscientious attorneys, gets them together, pleads the necessity of the case: a convention is arranged, Graspum will value the property-as a weigher and gauger of human flesh. This done, M'Carstrow signs a bond in the sum of fifteen hundred dollars, making himself responsible for the property. The instrument contains a provision, that should any unforeseen disaster befall it, the question of property will remain subject to the decision of Court. Upon these conditions, M'Carstrow procures an order for her release. He is careful, however, that nothing herein set forth shall affect the suit already instituted.

Love is an exhilarating medicine, moving and quickening the hearts of old and young. M'Carstrow felt its influence sensibly, as he hurried back to the prison-excited by the near approach of the ceremony-with the all-important order. Bolts, bars, and malarious walls, yield to it the pining captive whose presence will soothe Franconia's feelings.

Clotilda was no less elated at the hope of changing her prison for the presence of her young mistress; and yet, the previous summons had nearly unnerved her. She lingers at the grating, waiting M'Carstrow's return. Time seems to linger, until her feelings are nearly overwhelmed in suspense. Again, there is a mystery in the mission of the stranger; she almost doubts his sincerity. It may be one of those plots, so often laid by slave-traders, to separate her from her child,—perhaps to run her where all hope of regaining freedom will be for ever lost. One after another did these things recur to her mind, only to make the burden of her troubles more painful.

Her child has eaten its crust, fallen into a deep sleep, and, its little hands resting clasped on its bosom, lies calmly upon the coarse blanket. She gazes upon it, as a mother only can gaze. There is beauty in that sweet face; it is not valued for its loveliness, its tenderness, its purity. How cursed that it is to be the prime object of her disgrace! Thus contemplating, M'Carstrow appears at the outer gate, is admitted into the prison, reaches the inner grating, is received by the warden, who smiles generously. "I'm as glad as anything! Hope you had a good time with his honour, Mr. Cur?" he says, holding the big key in his hand, and leading the way into the office. He takes his seat at a table, commences preparing the big book. "Here is the entry," he says, with a smile of satisfaction. "We'll soon straighten the thing now." Puts out his hand for the order which M'Carstrow has been holding. "That's just the little thing," he says, reading it word by word carefully, and concluding with the remark that he has had a deal of trouble with it. M'Carstrow places some pieces of silver in his hand; they turn the man of keys into a subservient creature. He hastens to the cell, M'Carstrow following,—draws the heavy bolts,—bids the prisoner come forth. "Yes, come, girl; I've had a tough time to get you out of that place: it holds its prey like lawyers' seals," rejoins M'Carstrow.

"Not without my child?" she inquires quickly. She stoops down and kisses it. "My daughter,—my sweet child!" she mutters.

"Till to-morrow. You must leave her for to-night."

"If I must!" Again she kisses the child, adding, as she smoothed her hand over Annette, and parted her hair, "Mother will return soon." There was something so touching in the word mother, spoken while leaning over a sleeping babe. Clotilda reaches the door, having kept her eyes upon the child as she left her behind. A tremor comes over her,—she reluctantly passes the threshold of the narrow arch; but she breathes the fresh air of heaven,—feels as if her life had been renewed. A mother's thoughts, a mother's anxieties, a mother's love, veil her countenance. She turns to take a last look as the cold door closes upon the dearest object of her life. How it grates upon its hinges! her hopes seem for ever extinguished.

The law is thus far satisfied-the legal gentlemen are satisfied, the warden is not the least generous; and Mr. Cur feels that, while the job was a very nice one, he has not transcended one jot of his importance. Such is highly gratifying to all parties. Clotilda is hurried into a carriage, driven at a rapid rate, and soon arrives at the mansion. Here she is ushered into a chamber, arrayed in a new dress, and conducted into the presence of Franconia. The meeting may be more easily imagined than described. Their congratulations were warm, affectionate, touching. Clotilda kisses Franconia's hand again and again; Franconia, in turn, lays her hand upon Clotilda's shoulder, and, with a look of commiseration, sets her eyes intently upon her, as if she detects in her countenance those features she cannot disown. She requests to be left alone with Clotilda for a short time. Her friends withdraw. She discloses the difficulties into which the family have suddenly fallen, the plan of escape she has arranged, the hopes she entertains of her regaining her freedom. "Public opinion and the state of our difficulties prompted this course,—I prefer it to any other: follow my directions,—Maxwell has everything prepared, and to-night will carry you off upon the broad blue ocean of liberty. Enjoy that liberty, Clotilda,—be a woman,—follow the path God has strewn for your happiness; above all, let freedom be rewarded with your virtue, your example," says Franconia, as she again places her arm round Clotilda's neck.

"And leave my child, Franconia?" the other inquires, looking up imploringly in Franconia's face.

"To me," is the quick response. "I will be her guardian, her mother. Get you beyond the grasp of slavery-get beyond its contaminating breath, and I will be Annette's mother. When you are safely there, when you can breathe the free air of liberty, write me, and she shall meet you. Leave her to me; think of her only in my care, and in my trust she will be happy. Meet Maxwell-he is your friend-at the centre corridor; he will be there as soon as the ceremony commences; he will have a pass from me; he will be your guide!" She overcomes Clotilda's doubts, reasons away her pleadings for her child, gives her a letter and small miniature (they are to be kept until she reaches her destination of freedom), and commences preparing for the ceremony.

Night arrives, the old mansion brightens and resounds with the bustle of preparation. Servants are moving about in great confusion. Everything is in full dress; "yellow fellows," immersed in trim black coats, nicely-cut pantaloons, white vests and gloves, shirt-collars of extraordinary dimensions, and hair curiously crimped, are standing at their places along the halls, ready for reception. Another class, equally well dressed, are running to and fro through the corridors in the despatch of business. Old mammas have a new shine on their faces, their best "go to church" fixings on their backs. Younger members of the same property species are gaudily attired-some in silk, some in missus's slightly worn cashmere. The colour of their faces grades from the purest ebony to the palest olive. A curious philosophy may be drawn from the mixture: it contrasts strangely with the flash and dazzle of their fantastic dresses, their large circular ear-rings, their curiously-tied bandanas, the large bow points of which lay crossed on the tufts of their crimpy hair. The whole scene has an air of bewitching strangeness. In another part of the mansion we find the small figures of the estate, all agog, toddling and doddling, with faces polished like black-balled shoes; they are as piquant and interesting as their own admiration of the dress master has provided them for the occasion.

The darkness increases as the night advances. The arbour leading from the great gate to the vaulted hall in the base of the mansion is hung with lanterns of grotesque patterns, emitting light and shade as variegated as the hues of the rainbow. The trees and shrubbery in the arena, hung with fantastic lanterns, enliven the picture-make it grand and imposing. It presents a fairy-like perspective, with spectre lights hung here and there, their mellow glows reflecting softly upon the luxuriant foliage.

Entering the vaulted hall, its floor of antique tiles; frescoed walls with well-executed mythological designs, jetting lights flickering and dazzling through its arches, we find ourselves amidst splendour unsurpassed in our land. At the termination of the great hall a massive flight of spiral steps, of Egyptian marble, ascends to the fourth story, forming a balcony at each, where ottomans are placed, and from which a fine view of the curvature presents itself, from whence those who have ascended may descry those ascending. On the second story is a corridor, with moulded juttings and fretwork overhead; these are hung with festoons of jasmines and other delicate flowers, extending its whole length, and lighted by globular lamps, the prismatic ornaments of which shed their soft glows on the fixtures beneath. They invest it with the appearance of a bower decorated with buds and blossoms. From this, on the right, a spacious arched door, surmounted by a semi-circle of stained glass containing devices of the Muses and other allegorical figures, leads into an immense parlour, having a centre arch hung with heavy folds of maroon coloured velvet overspread with lace. Look where you will, the picture of former wealth and taste presents itself. Around the walls hang costly paintings, by celebrated Italian masters; some are portraits of the sovereigns of England, from that of Elizabeth to George the Third. Brilliant lights jet forth from massive chandeliers and girandoles, lighting up the long line of chaste furniture beneath. The floor is spread with softest Turkey carpet; groups of figures in marble, skilfully executed, form a curiously arranged fire-place; Britannia's crest surmounting the whole. At each end of the room stand chastely designed pieces of statuary of heroes and heroines of past ages. Lounges, ottomans, reclines, and couches, elaborately carved and upholstered, stand here and there in all their antiqueness and grandeur. Pier-glasses, massive tables inlaid with mosaic and pearl, are arranged along the sides, and overhung with flowing tapestry that falls carelessly from the large Doric windows. Over these windows are massive cornices, richly designed and gilded. Quiet grandeur pervades the whole; even the fairy-like dais that has been raised for the nuptial ceremony rests upon four pieces of statuary, and is covered with crimson velvet set with sparkling crystals. And while this spectacle presents but the vanity of our nature, grand but not lasting, the sweet breath of summer is wafting its balmy odours to refresh and give life to its lifeless luxury.

The gay cortŠge begins to assemble; the halls fill with guests; the beauty, grace, and intelligence of this little fashionable world, arrayed in its very best, will be here with its best face. Sparkling diamonds and other precious stones, dazzling, will enhance the gorgeous display. And yet, how much of folly's littleness does it all present! All this costly drapery-all this show of worldly voluptuousness-all this tempest of gaiety, is but the product of pain and sorrow. The cheek that blushes in the gay circle, that fair form born to revel in luxury, would not blush nor shrink to see a naked wretch driven with the lash. Yea! we have said it was the product of pain and sorrow; it is the force of oppression wringing from ignorance and degradation the very dregs of its life. Men say, what of that?-do we not live in a great good land of liberty?

The young affianced,—dressed in a flowing skirt of white satin, with richly embroidered train; a neat bodice of the same material, with incisions of lace tipped with brilliants; sleeves tapering into neat rufflets of lace clasped upon the wrist with diamond bracelets, a stomacher of chastely worked lace with brilliants in the centre, relieved by two rows of small unpolished pearls,—is ushered into the parlour, followed by groomsmen and bridesmaids as chastely dressed.

There is a striking contrast between the youth and delicacy of Franconia, blushing modestly and in her calmness suppressing that inert repugnance working in her mind, and the brusqueness of M'Carstrow, who assumes the free and easy dash, hoping thereby to lessen his years in the picture of himself. Clotilda, for the last time, has arranged Franconia's hair, which lies in simple braids across her polished brows, and folds upon the back, where it is secured and set off with a garland of wild flowers. The hand that laid it there, that arranged it so neatly, will never arrange it again. As a last token of affection for her young mistress, Clotilda has plucked a new-blown chiponique, white with crystal dew, and surrounded it with tiny buds and orange blossoms: this, Franconia holds in her left hand, the lace to which it is attached falling like mist to the ground.

Thus arrayed, they appear at the altar: the good man of modest cloth takes his place, the ceremony commences; and as it proceeds, and the solemn words fall upon her ear, "Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder," she raises her eyes upwards, with a look of melancholy, as tears, like pearls, glisten in her soft expressive eyes. Her heart is moved with deeper emotion than this display of southern galaxy can produce. The combination of circumstances that has brought her to the altar, the decline of fortune, perhaps disgrace, worked upon her mind. It is that which has consigned her to the arms of one she cannot love, whose feelings and associations she never can respect. Was she to be the ransom?-was she to atone for the loss of family fortune, family pride, family inconsistency? kept forcing itself upon her. There was no gladness in it-no happiness. And there was the captive, the victim of foul slavery-so foul that hell yearns for its abettors-whose deliverance she prayed for with her earnest soul. She knew the oppressor's grasp-she had, with womanly pride, come forward to relieve the wronged, and she had become sensible of the ties binding her to Clotilda. Unlike too many of her sex, she did not suppress her natural affections; she could not see only the slave in a disowned sister; she acknowledged the relationship, and hastened to free her, to send her beyond slavery's grasp, into the glad embrace of freedom.

The ceremony ends; the smiles and congratulations of friends, as they gather round Franconia, shower upon her; she receives them coldly, her heart has no love for them, it throbs with anxiety for that slave whose liberty she has planned, and for whose safety she invokes the all-protecting hand of heaven.