For some weeks the Hornet sought in vain for a cruiser of the enemy. Some valuable captures were made, and the vessels destroyed, and it was determined to shift the cruising ground to the South Atlantic.

As they approached the equator, the atmosphere became humid and oppressive, and they were deluged with frequent rain, compared to which the heaviest showers of our own more favored clime, are as the dew-drop to the overflowing cistern. Often at night the sea would be brilliantly phosphorescent, and the water as dashed aside by the advancing prow, fell over in curls of flame, while, gamboling around in very wantonness, myriads of porpoises, the dolphins of antiquity, sportively chased each other, and darting to and fro, without design or order, checkered with lines of light the dark, unruffled sea.

The day on which they crossed the line was preceded by a night of surpassing loveliness. Undisturbed and quiet as a sleeping infant, the calm and placid ocean lay in beautiful repose, its very heavings, as if moved by the modulation of sweet sounds, so gentle, as not to impair the reflections of its mirror-like surface.

Toward morning, a mist arose, which, becoming dense, settled down and banked around the horizon. As the night waned, faint streaks of light tinged the dark cloud; gradually the hues became brighter and more expanded, the violet became purple, the purple reddened into crimson, and suddenly, as from a bed of flame, the sun looked forth upon the quiet scene. The serene sky, the placid ocean, the soft breath of the morning, and the gorgeous sun, were all in keeping with the attributes of their Maker; while the tiny ship, a mere speck upon the waters, girdled with iron and prepared for strife, was a fit emblem of the frailty and insignificance of man.

The inconsiderate and the thoughtless were disappointed that the usual ceremony of receiving Neptune was dispensed with on crossing the line; but the Hornet was too well disciplined for such a disorderly exhibition, and her commander wisely considered the custom of roughly shaving the uninitiated as one more honored in the breach than the observance.

After crossing the equator, the atmosphere improved and became balmy and pleasant, and so rarified that the stars became visible at the very verge of the horizon. The pole star, the lamp hung out in heaven to guide the wanderer on the northern deep, although steadfast as faith it maintained its post, gradually disappeared, and others, more brilliant but less endeared by association, rose upon the view. High up in the heavens, two luminous bodies, like fragments of the milky way, became visible, while lower down toward the pole, another of darker hue was seen. They were the wonderful Magellan clouds which, from their position and immovability, are supposed by Humboldt to be the reflections of the Cordilleras.

The messmates of Talbot had soon perceived a marked change in his demeanor: His hilarity was gone, and, avoiding his former associates, he paced the deck or sat apart, wrapped in the visionary aspirations of a lover. They all suspected the cause, but had too much regard for him to wound his sensitive feelings by ill-timed jests and allusions. Indeed their respect for him insensibly increased, for they perceived with surprise that although completely absorbed in revery when he had no duty to perform, yet he had become the most vigilant among them, and in particular paid the most minute attention to the exercise of his division at the guns and in the use of small arms. At such times, his eyes sparkled with more than their wonted enthusiasm, and his very air breathed some exalted purpose.

“Take care, gentlemen,” said the captain one day to a party of officers near him, “take care! Talbot is wooing glory that he may win a bride, and if opportunity offers he may bear away the palm.”

“Let him if he can,” was the reply, “we will not begrudge what must be dearly earned.”

Nearly in a line with the extreme southern limits of two continents, at the confluence of two mighty oceans, lies Tristan d’Acuna, a high, rocky and uninhabited island, its summit wrapped in clouds, and, except in one place, the surf loud and continuous broke upon its shore. The wind was fresh, and the tumultuous waves ran high, when through the mist the Hornet gained a sight of the land. While the captain hesitated whether to venture in, or lie-to and await more favorable weather, the cry “sail ho!” was heard from aloft.

“Where away?” was quickly asked by the officer of the deck.

“Broad off the weather beam, sir,” was the reply, and the Hornet wore round and stood toward the stranger. None but those who have experienced it can form an idea of the thrill of delight with which each man on board of a cruiser, in time of war, hears the cry “sail ho!” which ensures the excitement of a chase, and the probability of an engagement.

Long before the hull of the stranger was visible from the deck, her spars and sails, enveloped in the mist, in their shadowy outline seemed of gigantic size. Like a shapeless cloud rather than a thing of art, she came down before the breeze, now and then the mist, in fantastic wreaths, half concealing, half betraying her form and character. The American hoisted her colors as an invitation to the stranger to declare her nationality. Shortly after, the report of a gun came booming over the water, and there was a shout of exultation among the crew of the Hornet, as through the vapor they descried the ensign of St. George. The commander of each vessel, however, was too good a seaman not to be aware that the wind was too high, and the sea too rough, for a fair encounter. Each one, brave himself, doubted not the valor of his adversary. With a tacit understanding that they would meet when the gale abated, the ships hove-to, in each other’s near vicinity. They rode out the night in safety, each one carrying a light, to denote her position to the other.

The next day it moderated, and at 1 P. M. the Hornet hoisted her jack at the fore, as an intimation that she was ready for the encounter. The signal was promptly answered, and the vessels filling away on opposite tacks, exchanged broadsides as they passed. Immediately after, like two knights engaged À l’outrance, each again wore round and stood directly for the other, while from forward, aft, successively as they bore, the guns were fired with singular precision. As they neared each other, the scene became more and more exciting: Beside the boom of the cannon, the pealing of the musketry soon became incessant, and the hurtling of iron and lead was terrific. The atmosphere was soon thick and stifling, and the crews were working their guns with the energy of desperation, when a severe concussion, followed by a harsh and grating sound, told that the ships were afoul.

“Away! boarders away!” was the instant cry on board of the Englishman, and a host of men, cutlas and pistol in hand, gathered on his forecastle.

“Stand by to repel boarders,” was the prompt response of the American, and a forest of bristling pikes was arrayed against the assailants. Talk of serried ranks and wedged battalions; of the compact square, and even of the deep moat and frowning parapet! who would not charge upon either, rather than breast that fretted line of steel, held by those stern-visaged men! The enemy paused and faltered.

By word and example, Talbot had encouraged his men to their utmost exertion, and at the first call, had hurried with them to repel the enemy; but, when that enemy hesitated, although but for an instant, he shouted, “On them, men! on! on!” and rushed forward as he spoke, to board them in turn.

“Hold, men! hold! Back, Mr. Talbot, back, I command you,” shouted the captain. “My God! he’s gone!” he added, as the two ships, lifted high by a passing wave, fell apart, and the fore-mast of the enemy came down with a frightful crash. The instant before, Talbot had sprung upon her bowsprit, and the next, just escaping the mast as it fell, he was upon her deck.

Captain Biddle, although he had been firm as a veteran throughout the fight, no sooner beheld the peril of his officer, than, trembling like an aspen, he sprung into the rigging, and in a voice shrill and distinct amid the uproar, called out, “Hurt but a hair of his head and I’ll sink you where you lie.”

In the meantime, Talbot had not been idle. Striking right and left, parrying where he could, but not stopping to return a blow, he pressed on, and in less time than it has taken to narrate this incident, had gained the quarter-deck, cut the halliards and hauled the ensign down.

Immediately on separating from the enemy, the Hornet ranged ahead, and was prepared to throw in a broadside, but seeing the colors down, hailed to know if they had surrendered. The reply was in the affirmative.

The prize was immediately taken possession of, and Talbot was found almost insensible, endeavoring to staunch the blood from an ugly wound with the flag he had hauled down.

So destructive had been the fire of the American that the prize was completely riddled: She was therefore scuttled; and in a very short time the Hornet was again prepared for action.

The wound of poor Talbot was so severe as to leave no hope of his being able to perform duty the remainder of the cruise. A merchant vessel that was fallen in with was chartered as a cartel, and all the prisoners, with a few of the wounded, including Talbot, were put on board of her, to be taken to the United States.

Under the judicious treatment of the medical officer who accompanied them, he was fast recovering when they passed the island, where we first introduced him to the reader. At his urgent request he was landed, the cartel, after a few hours delay, proceeding on her course.

Like the anguish of the parting, the glorious ecstasy of the meeting of the lovers may be imagined, but cannot be described.

“Dear Edward,” said the maiden, as soon as they were alone, “Dr. Holmes has told me all, and you have more than realized my wildest and most extravagant hopes.”

“Say not so, Mary! indeed you should rather take credit to yourself, for if I have been swayed by any other motive than love of country, it has been to prove myself worthy of your rare affection.”

“It was ever so with you, Edward—you first excite our admiration, and then ascribe to others the fruits of your own good deeds.”

“Nay, sweet girl, you wrong yourself and me. Tell me, what is the body without the soul?”

“An inanimate lump of clay—but why the question?”

“Because to me you are what the soul is to the body—the life which animates and the spirit which directs it—you are at once my inspiration and my hope—the burthen of my thoughts, the aim and object of all my aspirations.”

“Hush, Edward, this cannot, nay, I would not have it to be true; let us change the theme.” She laid her hand upon his mouth as she spoke—but what maiden was ever yet displeased with the devotion of a favored lover?

In the course of their conversation, Talbot learned that Mr. Gillespie had completed his arrangements, and was on the look out for a vessel to convey himself and family to the United States. The former was of course anxious to accompany them, and in the midst of happiness was, perhaps, the most impatient of them all, for Mr. Gillespie would not consent to his daughter’s marriage before she had seen her relatives at home: Perhaps, too, he wished to inquire more particularly than he had yet been enabled to do, into the character and circumstances of the man he was about to receive as his son-in-law. He knew him to be brave and intelligent, and of frank and winning manners, but he knew nothing more—the captain of the ship, when he dined with him, having answered his questions in general terms of commendation.

They waited for a long time in vain. So ruinous had the war become to American commerce, that for months not a vessel from the United States had visited the island.

Late one evening a schooner, named the Humming-bird, formerly an American letter-of-marque, arrived, bringing intelligence of peace between England and the United States. The owners of the schooner had without delay applied for a commission to the Colombian minister, and she was now equipped as a privateer under that flag. The commander of her, having been drawn from his course by a vessel to which he had given chase and captured two days previous, purposed proceeding immediately to Nassau, New Providence. As from thence a speedy conveyance to the United States could certainly be procured, and no Spanish cruisers were supposed to be at sea, Mr. Gillespie offered such inducements to the captain that he consented to take them as passengers, and gave up his cabin for their accommodation.

In less than sixty hours they sailed, with a light but favorable wind. About 4 P. M. the second day, when they were nearly through the Mona passage, it fell calm. Within the passage, from shore to shore, there was not a ripple upon the water, and the light and buoyant little vessel, without advancing a foot, rose and fell with the mysterious undulation. A few miles ahead, without the passage, stretching from the east toward the west, the dark and ruffled surface was relieved by the white caps of the waves, whose tops were curling and breaking into sparkling foam. It was the trade wind sweeping, unobstructed by the land, toward the Great Bahama Bank. Several vessels were in sight, among them a large one, coming down before the wind, but which, less than any, excited their attention—for she seemed too burthensome for a Spanish trader to the colonies.

“Captain,” said Talbot, half an hour after, “unless I am very much mistaken, that large stranger to windward is a man-of-war.”

“Probably an Englishman.” replied the captain.

“Scarcely, the canvas is not sufficiently dark, and the upper sails roach too much; it is evidently a frigate, and now I think of it, can hardly be a Frenchman, for they rarely cruise in this direction. Are you sure that there are no Spanish cruisers among the islands?”

“None so large as this,” answered the captain, “for the Isabella went to leeward upward of a month ago.”

“May it not have been a ruse?” asked Talbot.

“Give me the glass,” said the captain, and he looked long and earnestly; “I cannot make her out,” he said at length, “but do not like her looks. Get out the sweeps, Mr. Long,” he added, addressing his lieutenant, “we must have the Humming-bird out of this mill-pond, or her wings will be useless.”

The order was promptly obeyed, and the little vessel was soon moving at the rate of three or four knots through the water; but the larger vessel was in the mean time coming down at treble velocity. As soon as the schooner began to feel the influence of the wind, the sweeps were laid in, and all sail made to the northward, in the hope that the stranger would pass without observing them. In this, however, they were disappointed, for, as the latter was brought to bear abeam, they observed with anxiety, that she edged away toward them.

“I fear that we have been deceived in our intelligence,” said the captain, in reply to a look from Talbot, as they noticed the suspicious movement of the stranger.

“For Heaven’s sake, conceal your misgivings from Mr. Gillespie and his family while there is a hope,” asked Talbot; to which the captain nodded assent, and proceeded quietly to make his arrangements to elude, if possible, the grasp of his pursuer; for he now felt convinced that he saw the Isabella. The best sailing of the schooner was by the wind; instead, therefore, of keeping away before it, she was hauled close to it, and steered N. N. E. bringing the frigate to bear forward of the weather beam.

[To be continued.

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BY HENRY B. HIRST.

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BY A. J. REQUIER.

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BY CAROLINE. H. BUTLER.

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“Sister, are you determined, then, to marry Annette to Mr. Eccleson?” asked Mr. Goodman of his sister, Mrs. Doily.

“Certainly I am, brother,” answered the lady. “In every respect it is a most advantageous match for her; indeed, John, I assure you that I look upon an alliance with the Eccleson family as one of the most desirable things which could possibly happen, and so does Mr. Doily.”

“I do not agree with you,” said her brother; “and I fear in the end, you may have reason to change your present views.”

“And why so, brother?” returned Mrs. Doily. “It seems to me you are always looking upon the dark side! Now do tell me, John, what reasonable objection you can possibly have to Annette’s marriage—I am sure I see none—and, of course, no one can have her happiness more at heart than her own mother! Is not Mr. Eccleson very rich, and nearly allied to some of the very first families in the city? His age surely can be no serious objection—indeed, it is all for the best, for a man stands still, while a woman grows old; and fifteen years hence, depend upon it, no one will think him fifteen years her senior. Then he is very agreeable, and certainly uncommonly good-looking!” and with the air of one who feels satisfied that they have the best of the argument, Mrs. Doily complacently swung to and fro in her easy rocking-chair.

“Yes, Jane, he is all these—and, you may add, too, as proud as Lucifer!” said Mr. Goodman.

“He has reason to be proud!” put in Mrs. Doily.

“Perhaps he has,” answered her brother, “and you will find that his pride will not allow him to acknowledge willingly any connection with a dry-goods retailer!”

“Ridiculous, brother—how foolish you talk! Pray, then, why should he offer to marry Annette, if he looks upon the connection as something to be ashamed of?” said Mrs. Doily, getting almost angry.

“Why? why because he has fallen in love with Annette’s pretty face; he means to marry her, not her family, and he trusts to his future power over her, and to a woman’s devotedness to her husband, right or wrong, to wean her away from all her earlier ties!”

“John, you really talk very strangely!” exclaimed Mrs. Doily, almost ready to cry. “What possesses you to run on in this way, just as if my dear Annette could ever be brought to give up all her old friends for strangers. I do wish you would not talk so—it really makes me nervous!”

“Well, my dear sister, I may be mistaken, and for your sake, and for Annette’s sake, I hope to God I am! I call myself a pretty good judge of character, and if I err not, Mr. Eccleson has so much pride, arrogance, perhaps, would be the better word, for it is not the pride of a high-minded, honorable man, as will make him callous what ties he rends, or what sacred altars he may trample down to serve his own ambitious views. Besides, Jane, I never yet knew any true happiness to result from unequal marriages; and I tell you honestly, that were Annette my daughter, I would sooner see her the wife of an honest young tradesman, who has his own fortune and standing to build up, than the wife of Penn Eccleson, were he ten times richer than he is!”

“Oh, yes, John, were Annette your daughter!” said Mrs. Doily, forcing a laugh. “Yes, I know, old bachelors and old maids are always most wonderful patterns of parental prudence! but with all your prejudices you will allow one thing, I hope, that Mr. Eccleson is far from being either a selfish or a mercenary man!”

“I deny the first,” interrupted Mr. Goodman.

“For he refuses to receive any fortune with Annette; true, we could not give her much—five or six thousand dollars, perhaps—but even that is something; and I am sure his refusal to accept of it is very noble. It is Annette, and Annette alone he wants.”

“True, very true—it is Annette he wants, and not a penny of the retailer’s money—there shall be no obligation of that nature to bind him to the family of the future Mrs. Eccleson!” exclaimed Mr. Goodman, starting up angrily from his chair. “Jane, Jane, I protest against this marriage!” and seizing his hat and cane, he withdrew, leaving poor Mrs. Doily bathed in the tears she was no longer able to restrain—tears of vexation and anger, at what she deemed the willful obstinacy of her brother.

If what Uncle John said was true, it was certainly yet to be proved, for, perhaps, no marriage in the eyes of partial, hopeful parents, ever promised a fairer prospect of happiness to trusting girlhood than that so soon to be consummated.

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Penn Eccleson belonged exclusively to the monied aristocracy. His grandfather and father before him, had both commenced life with a determination to be rich—richer—richest—and what the former had accumulated from small beginnings and careful savings, were as carefully and judiciously applied by the son, until little by little the broad foundation of future wealth was successfully established.

In the days of their youth, when the freshness of their young lives should have been given to better and holier ends, the parents of Penn Eccleson looked forward only to the aggrandizement of themselves and children, through the potent influence of money; and to this end they toiled and delved in the service of Mammon, with a bondage almost equal to that of the gold-seeking maniac amid the mountain fastnesses of California, denying themselves all the luxuries, and most of the comforts of life to swell the hoard of avarice, and feed their ill-directed ambition.

As years took their flight, step by step the Ecclesons gradually emerged from the obscurity of a narrow cross-street in the lower part of the city, to the possession of one of the most elegant establishments in the fashionable region of —— Square. The most genteel schools were selected for their children, who were expressly forbidden to form any friendships with their little school-mates, save those whose parents could at least boast of a carriage, and thus, their heads early filled with conceit and pride, the little Ecclesons formed as disagreeable a trio as one would care to see—for assuredly there is nothing more unpleasing, than to behold the beautiful simplicity of childhood lost in the supercilious airs and artificial graces of the fine lady!

The Ecclesons were regarded at first in no very favorable light, in the quarter they had chosen for their debut into high life, and occasionally their pride suffered severely. But with a pertinacity worthy a higher aim, they firmly stood their ground, and upon the strength of their fine dinners, and their splendid parties, were, in the course of a few years, not only tolerated, but received with favor into those circles they most coveted. Their only son, meanwhile, was traveling in Europe, with a carte-blanche in his pocket for any expenses he might choose to indulge, and the sage advice of worthy Polonius engrafted on his mind, in the sense, I mean, with which Mr. Hudson translates Shakspeare, that is, “to sit up all night to make himself a gentleman, and take no pains to make himself a man.”

Time rolled on. Their daughters made highly eligible matches, their son returned elegant in person, polished in manners, and then it was time for the old people to die.

Doubtless it would have been a satisfaction to them to have witnessed their own sumptuous funerals; to have known how daintily their rigid limbs were draped in the finest of linen, and upon what soft, downy cushions within their narrow bed their heads were pillowed. It would have been a splendid pageant for their pride—the richly emblazoned coffin—the pall of velvet sweeping to the ground—the hearse, with its long shadowy plumes—the high-mettled horses curbed to a solemn pace, yet tossing their heads and manes as if nobly spurning from them the trappings of fictitious wo in which they were forced to act a part—the stately equipages which follow their dust to the “City of the Dead”—and then their own epitaphs; it would have amazed them to have known how many virtues of which they themselves were ignorant, that finely chiseled marble bestowed upon them.

The old gentleman remembered each of his daughters and their families handsomely in his will, and then bequeathed to his son the residue of his large property, including the fine mansion in —— Square. Penn Eccleson might therefore be considered by speculating papas and mammas a most eligible match. Nature had also been most lavish in her personal gifts, while Fortune, as we have seen, had already secured him her favors.

But young Eccleson seemed in no hurry to take a wife, and he had nearly attained his thirtieth year ere he began seriously to look about him. At this time he accidentally saw Annette Doily at the Opera, and became instantly a victim to love at first sight. It must be owned his ardor was somewhat cooled, upon ascertaining that this beautiful young creature was—nobody! that is, she was only the daughter of a mere shopkeeper, who dealt out tapes and bobbins, and sold cambric by the yard. This fact, for a time, was sufficient to keep his ardor in check, but upon being thrown again into her presence, it broke forth with renewed violence. He gave himself no rest until he had found a way to make her acquaintance, and thus led by the little god, the haughty Penn Eccleson, who walked the earth as though he were lord of all, became a frequent visiter at the house of Mr. Doily, and a suitor for the hand of his daughter.

Annette was, indeed, a lovely young creature, whose seventeenth summer had scarcely dawned over her innocent, happy life. I would fain describe her, as her image comes up before me in the dream of the past, but my pen is unable to trace the indescribable charm which dwelt upon her countenance, or the artless grace which pervaded all her movements. And these were the least traits which endeared her to her friends, for never was there a heart more affectionate and confiding, or a disposition so guileless. What wonder that the polished manners and insinuating address of Eccleson should have gained her heart, and that with all the fervor and truthfulness of a first love, she blushingly consented to be his—grateful, too, for the preference he had yielded a simple child like herself.

Mr. and Mrs. Doily were proud of their daughter, and proud of the conquest she had achieved. In the alliance they saw an immense advantage; it not only placed their beloved Annette at once in the highest circles of rank and fashion, but to Mr. Doily, the benefit to his business, arising from a connection with the Eccleson family, would be incalculable. He already fancied himself turning his back upon the counter, and established among the bales and boxes of a large wholesale house—perhaps an importer—a ship-owner; while Mrs. Doily, with the true instinct of a mother, forgetting all self, rejoiced that her two younger daughters would be ushered into society under the patronage of their wealthy brother-in-law.

Uncle John was the only one who predicted aught but undivided happiness from the union.

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Had the cloudless heaven which dawned upon their wedding morn, and the bright sun which burst in gladness over them, but typified their future lot, how blest and happy would it have been.

Eccleson preferred to be married in church, and a gay retinue attended the bridal pair to the sacred edifice wherein their solemn vows were to be registered. As side by side they stood in the holy chancel, all eyes turned admiringly upon them—she so charming, yet so unconscious of her loveliness, as with her little hand nestled in his she received the holy benediction of the priest, while as he bent his lips to her pure brow, a softness rested upon the features of the bridegroom, which rendered his beauty almost godlike.

The ceremony over, the two sisters of Eccleson, proud, haughty dames, advanced and coldly saluted the pale cheek of the fair bride, and honored the sadly happy mother with a stately bow. Eccleson touched his lips to the proffered cheek of Mrs. Doily, and then receiving the weeping Annette from the arms of her parents, bore her exultingly to the carriage, as if eager to point the barrier henceforth to be raised between her and them.

The new married pair were absent two or three months on a bridal tour, and then returned to the city—their house in the interim having been newly and magnificently furnished to the tune of thousands, under the supervision of Mrs. Dash and Townlif, the sisters of Eccleson. But Annette pined to embrace her mother; not all the gilded baubles which on every side met her eye, not all the splendors of which her husband proudly proclaimed her the mistress, could for a moment quell the yearnings of her affectionate heart; and scarcely bestowing a glance upon the magnificence which surrounded her, she begged the carriage might take her to her parents and sisters.

Poor Annette! she was now to receive her first lesson from her haughty lord.

“No, Annette, you must not think of it,” replied Eccleson, carelessly loosing the arms twined so fondly round his neck, “you are very tired, love, and I cannot consent to your further fatiguing yourself.”

“Indeed, dear Penn, you are mistaken, I am not in the least tired; O, pray let me go home, if only for an hour!” said Annette, with her little hand upon his shoulder, and her large, dark eyes bent beseechingly upon his.

“I tell you, Annette, I cannot suffer you to go into P—— Street to-night; beside, love,” he added, “it pains me to hear you speak of going home, as if this were not your home, your only home, Annette.”

There was a meaning stress upon the word “only,” which, however, Annette did not observe, so crushed was she by the disappointment his refusal caused her. She hesitated a moment, and then once more flinging her arms around him, she said,

“Dearest husband, I must go—do not refuse me. Only think, it is three months since I have seen them—three months, Penn, since I have embraced my mother. I know they are pining to behold me once more, for I was never away from them even for a day until I became yours, dear Penn; I am sure I shall not sleep unless I see them to-night.”

“Nonsense, Annette,” replied Eccleson; “you are no longer a child, I hope, to be thus sighing and whining after your mother; really I am quite ashamed of my little wife! Come, I will myself show you to your dressing-room; you have not yet seen the splendid diamonds I have for you, nor the elegant trousseau my sisters have prepared. Come, Annette,” and encircling her slender waist with his arm, he would have led her from the room.

Tears stood in Annette’s beautiful eyes.

“Dearest Penn, will you do me a favor? If you object to my going home to-night, then let the carriage drive round into P—— Street, and bring my mother here.”

Eccleson drew himself up haughtily.

“Absurd, Annette—I shall certainly do no such thing. In the morning I shall not object to your visiting your parents, provided you take an early hour ere we may expect my friends to call upon you; but the truth is, the less frequent you make your visits in P—— Street, Annette, the better I shall be pleased.”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Annette, with a startled look upon the countenance of her husband; “indeed I do not understand you, dear Penn.”

“Well, my dear girl. I will endeavor to explain myself more clearly,” answered Eccleson. “You are, of course, aware that by your marriage with me, your position in life has wholly changed; you are now raised to a sphere greatly above that from which I took you; and as my wife will henceforth move in none but the highest and most distinguished circles of the city; and therefore, dearest Annette, for my sake as well as for your own, it will be desirable that you forget all old associations as soon as possible.”

“I do not understand you even now, I think,” said Annette, smiling sadly. “No, I am sure, dear Penn, I do not take your true meaning—for it cannot be you would have me sacrifice my parents to my new position, to renounce all the fond ties of home! that is not what you mean?” she added with an appealing look.

“In a certain sense that is my meaning, love,” answered her husband. “I shall offer no objections to your visiting your excellent parents occasionally, or as your parents of receiving them into my house; but, my sweet Annette, you must study to control your wishes for a very frequent repetition of these family meetings. It may seem impossible to you now, but believe me, dearest, you will soon find so much that is novel and delightful to occupy your thoughts, that you will cease to regret that which appears to afflict you so much at present.”

With her little hands clasped upon her bosom, and her eyes gazing almost wildly into his, did Annette listen to the words of her heartless, selfish husband. But there was no resentment, no anger visible in her sweet face; with a sigh which would have moved any heart but his, she said,

“I am grieved to hear you speak so, dear Penn; nothing can ever make me forgetful of the ties of nature; you yourself would despise me, if, through the allurements of wealth and fashion, I could be brought to forget those who gave me being. You know you would; say so, dearest Penn—you only wanted to prove me, did you?” and casting one arm fondly around his neck, with a sadly sweet smile she bent her lovely eyes upon him.

“Annette, we will not talk of this more at present,” answered her husband; “enough that if you love me, you will, by and bye, better understand and do my meaning.”

The first night Annette passed under her husband’s roof was a sleepless one. Her chamber, in its luxurious adornments, might have received a princess—but little did she heed it. The beautiful hangings of pink and silver which swept around the bed—the rich counterpane of white satin which enveloped her lovely form—the downy pillows cased in the finest lace—nor all the splendors which surrounded her, had power for a moment to divert her saddened thoughts, or stay the tears of wounded affection.

But hope, bright hope is ever the blessing of youth as of age, and with the morning dawn gladdened the heart of the young wife with its peaceful influence, and whispered that her husband meant not the cruel words he had spoken, and that all would yet be well.

At an early hour the carriage was at the door, and Annette was borne once more to the arms of her parents. She hoped, but dared not ask her husband to accompany her, and it was with a heavy sigh and a starting tear that, after handing her into the carriage, she saw him once more ascend the marble steps, and then, as the carriage drove off, kissing his hand to her, re-enter the house.

In the fond welcome of home Annette lost the sorrow which already touched her young heart. As she viewed each dear familiar spot, her marriage seemed but a dream. From room to room she flew with the gladness of a bird—the kitchen—the nursery—the dear old school-room, all felt her light footstep now rapidly sweeping the keys of the piano as she glided past—now chasing the little kitten from “mother’s” work-basket—now releasing her pet canary from its wiry prison, to perch upon her finger—and finally seating herself upon a low cushion at the feet of her mother, with the shaggy, sleepy head of old Rover in her lap, she prepared to answer some of the many questions poured upon her.

And what a proud, happy mother was Mrs. Doily at that moment—laughing and crying at the same moment as she looked upon her dear, darling Annette. How many affectionate inquiries she had to make about her new son-in-law—what plans she laid for the future—why did not Mr. Eccleson come with her? But she knew he would soon—and Annette must stay to dinner; yes, the carriage must go back without her, she had been away from them so long they could not spare her to-day; and Mr. Eccleson would come to dinner—it was lucky, for they were going to have boiled turkey and oysters, and the nicest, fattest pair of ducks she ever saw. But Annette reluctantly excused herself—they were to receive their wedding visits, and she must go—some other day, soon, very soon she would come. And kissing them all a dozen times, she sprung into the carriage and returned home with a lightened heart—for it could not be that her husband would willingly deprive her of so much enjoyment as that one brief hour had given her.

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It is needless to trace, day by day, and hour by hour, the thralls which gradually tightened around the kind, loving heart of Annette, who passively yielded herself to the selfish demands of her husband.

By the haughty relatives of Eccleson she was received either with formal courtesy, or with that condescending air of patronage, the most keenly cutting to a sensitive soul. She would have loved them, poor girl, if they would have suffered her love; but her advances were always chillingly repelled—they wished her to feel the vast difference which existed between a shopkeeper’s daughter and their “almighty dreadful little mightinesses.”

Eccleson loved his young wife as dearly as it was in his nature to love any one, save self—and all but his pride, would have sacrificed to her happiness. To a gay round of parties, soirÉes, the opera, theatres, and concerts, he bore her night after night, until any less gentle nature than Annette’s would have been lost in the giddy whirl of fashion. Her dresses, her jewels, her equipage, out-rivaled all others; she was the belle of the brilliant circle in which she moved; but she pined in her gilded prison, and longed to lay her aching head upon her mother’s bosom.

The very fact that her husband looked upon her relatives as inferior to himself, marked the galling dependence of her situation. She was his wife, but fettered by bonds which ate into her soul. Almost wholly was she now debarred from the society of her own friends—for she could not see them insulted, and no better than insult was the haughty bearing which Eccleson assumed toward them, and therefore she preferred they should think her the heartless thing she seemed, than by persisting in her claims, subject them and herself to renewed contumely.

Better would it have been for Annette had she possessed more firmness of character—a will to do as she pleased—a determination to have her rights respected. But she was by nature too gentle to wrestle with the unfeeling hearts around her, and therefore yielded herself a passive victim. Or better, perhaps, would it have been, had her bosom covered a marble heart, and that, callous to all the tender ties which can make life desirable, she should have walked through life that mysterious anomaly—a beautiful woman without a soul!

But it was not so.

The step of Annette gradually lost its light elastic tread—her cheek grew pale—her eyes no longer reflected the innocent gayety of a happy heart, but bent low their drooping lids as if to hide their weight of sorrow—the bright smile which lent its charms to her speaking countenance faded sadly away. In less than two years after her marriage with that proud, haughty man, poor Annette was dying—dying of a broken-heart—of crushed and blighted affection!

Too late to save her did Eccleson see his error. He saw that he had drawn too strongly upon her gentle, pliant nature, and that barred from the light and sun of her childhood’s home—shut out from the kindly sympathies of parental love, like some beautiful flower of the forest torn from its genial bed, she was to fade and die at ambition’s altar!

To restore her, if possible, and bitterly repenting his cruelty, Eccleson now did all in the power of mortal to stay her angel flight. He brought her parents around her—he surrounded her bedside with the most skillful physicians, and lavished upon her all the comforts which wealth could purchase. He took her home and restored to her the treasured associations of her early life.

Poor Annette was grateful—deeply grateful for this too long deferred kindness; and now that in this reunion life seemed again to present so many charms, she would have desired to live had her Heavenly Father so willed it. But it was too late. The barbed arrow had penetrated too deeply her innocent bosom to be withdrawn. With her hand clasped in that of her repentant husband, and her head pillowed on her mother’s breast, her gentle spirit took its flight.

Gentle reader, this is no exaggerated story I have given you. It is but another life-drawn sketch of the evils which too frequently arise from unequal marriages.

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BY PARK BENJAMIN.

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[This poem was composed after reading a vivid description of the passage of a ship through the magnificent fields of ice in Hudson’s Bay, by Ballantyne.]

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BY CHARLES E. TRAIL.

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OR THE CHINAMAN IN PARIS

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(FROM THE FRENCH OF MERY.)

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(Concluded from page 128.)