BY MRS. S. J. HALE.

CHAPTER I.

Arthur Lloyd was about twenty-two when, by his father's death, he came into possession of property worth, at least, a million. His father died somewhat suddenly, and the young man, who was then in Paris, partly on business for his father, partly to see the world, was summoned home by the cares which such an inheritance naturally involved. There are few scenes that more deeply try the spirit of a man than a return to a desolate home. The mind can support the separations which the common current of human affairs renders inevitable without much suffering. One may even dwell in the midst of strangers, and not feel lonely, if the heart has a resting-place elsewhere. But when we open the solitary apartments, where everything we see calls up associations of dear friends we can hope to meet no more forever, a blight falls on our path of life, and we know that whatever of happiness may await us, our enjoyments can never be as in days past.

It was late on Saturday night when Arthur Lloyd reached the elegant mansion in —— street, New York, of which he was now the sole proprietor. The domestics had been expecting his arrival, and every arrangement had been made, as far as they knew his wishes and tastes, to gratify him. Wealth will command attention, but in this case there was more devotion to the man than his money; for Arthur was beloved, and affection needs no prompter.

"How sorry I am that this pretty mignonette is not in blossom!" said Mrs. Ruth, the housekeeper; "you remember, Lydia, how young Mr. Lloyd liked the mignonette."

"Yes, I remember it well; but I always thought it was because Miss Ellen called it her flower, and he wanted to please the pretty little girl."

"That might make some difference, Lydia, for he has such a kind heart. And now I think of it, I wonder if Miss Ellen knows he is expected home so soon."

"She does," said Lydia, "for I told her yesterday, but she didn't seem to care. And I do not think she likes him."

"She is melancholy, poor child! and who can blame her when she has lost her best friend?"

"Why, Mrs. Ruth, cannot young Mr. Lloyd be as good a friend as his father? I am sure he will be as kind."

"Yes, no doubt of that. But, Lydia, it will not do for a young man to be so kind to a pretty girl; Miss Ellen is now quite a young lady; the world would talk about it."

"I wonder who would dare to speak a word against Mr. Arthur?" said Lydia, reddening with indignation.

When a man's household are his friends, he hardly need care for the frowns of the world; and even the gloom of sorrow was relieved as Arthur shook hands with the old and favored domestics, whose familiar faces glowed with that honest, hearty welcome which no parasite can counterfeit. But when he retired to his chamber, the silence and solitude brought the memory of his lost friends sadly and deeply on his mind. He felt alone in the world. What did it avail that he had wealth to purchase all which earth calls pleasures, when the disposition to enjoy them could not be purchased? The brevity of life seemed written on every object around. All these things had belonged to his parents. And now they had no part in all that was done beneath the sun.

"And yet," thought Arthur, "who knows that their interest in earthly things is annihilated by death? Why may not a good man receive much of his heavenly felicity from witnessing the growth of the good seed he has planted in living hearts? Why may he not be gladdened, even when singing the song of his own redemption, by seeing that the plans he had devised for the improvement of his fellow-beings are in progress, carried forward by agents whom God has raised up to do their share of the labor in fitting this world for the reign of the just? If—if my good parents are ever permitted to look down upon the son they have trained so carefully, God grant they may find he has not departed from the way their precepts and example have alike made plain before him."

There is no opiate, excepting a good conscience, like a good resolution. And Arthur slept soundly that night, and passed the Sabbath in the tranquillity which a spirit resigned to the will of heaven, and yet resolved to do all that earth demands of a rational being, cannot but enjoy. But one thought would intrude to harass him. His father's death had occurred while Arthur was far away. He had not heard the parting counsel, the dying benediction. Perhaps his father had, in his last moments, thought of some important suggestion or warning for his son, but there was no ear tuned by affection to vibrate at the trembling sound, and catch and interpret the whispered and broken sentence, and so the pale lips were mute.

With such impressions on his mind, Arthur was prepared to read eagerly a letter, directed to himself, which he found deposited in his father's desk, purposely, as it appeared, to meet the notice of his son, before beginning the inspection of those papers business would render necessary. I shall give the entire letter, because the character of the father must be understood in order to comprehend the influences which had modelled that of the son.

It is on the very rich and the very poor that domestic example and instruction operate with the most sure and abiding effect. We find the children of parents in the middling class, removed from the temptation of arrogance on the one hand, and despair on the other, are those who admire and endeavor to imitate the models of goodness and greatness history furnishes, or the world presents. Such may become what is termed self-educated; but this process the very rich think unnecessary, and the very poor impossible. Therefore, when the early training of these two classes has inclined them to evil, they rarely recover themselves from the contamination. But the letter; it ran thus:—

My dear and only Son: I informed you in my last letter that my health was declining. I felt even then, though I did not express it, that I should never see you again in this world; still I did not anticipate the rapid progress which my disease has since made. However, I have much cause for thankfulness. I endure little pain, and my mind was never more calm and collected. I have resolved, therefore, to arrange some of my thoughts and reflections for your perusal, knowing that you will prize them as the last expression of your father's love.

I have often endeavored, in my hours of health, to bring the final scene of departure from this world vividly before my mind. I have thought I had succeeded. But the near approach to the borders of eternity wonderfully alters the appearance of all earthly things. I often find myself saying, "What shadows we are, and shadows we pursue!"

Shadows indeed! But it would not be well that the veil should be removed from the eyes of those whose journey of life is, apparently, long before them. The duties which prepare us for heaven must be done on earth. It is this moral responsibility which makes the importance of every action we perform. Considered in this light, the example of every rational being is invested with a mighty power for good or evil; and that good is productive of happiness, and evil of misery, we need not the award of the last judgment to convince us. The history of the world, our observation, our conscience, and our reason, all prove that to deal justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly before God is the perfection of man's felicity. The great error lies in mistaking our true interest. We separate earth from heaven by an impassable gulf, and in our labors for the body think the spirit's work has no connection. This false philosophy makes us selfish while we are young, and superstitious when we are old, and of consequence unhappy through life. But these things may be remedied. If the wise man spoke truth, there is a way in which we should go, and we may be so trained as to walk in it when we are young, and prefer it when we are old.

It has, my son, since you were given me, been the great aim of my life to educate you in such habits and principles as I believe will insure your present and final felicity. When I speak of what I have done, it is with a humble acknowledgment of the mercy and goodness of God who has supported and blessed me; and I would impress it on your heart that Heaven's blessing will descend on every one who seeks it with patience and with prayer. But I did not always have these views. I was not educated as you have been, and it is for the purpose of explaining to you the motives which have governed my conduct towards you that I shall enter into a recital of some incidents, which you may know as facts, but of their consequences you are not aware.

My father, as you have often heard, left a handsome fortune to each of his ten children; but as he acquired his property late in life by lucky speculations, we were none of us subjected to the temptations of luxury in our childhood. We were all educated to be industrious and prudent, and an uncommon share of these virtues had, as the eldest, been inculcated on me. So that when, in addition to my well-won thrift, the share I received from my father's estate made me a rich man, I felt no disposition to enjoy it in any other mode than to increase it. I did not mean to drudge always in the service of mammon; but I thought I must wait till I was somewhat advanced, before I could retire and live honorably without exertion; but, in the mean time, I would heap pleasures on my family.

Your mother was a lovely, amiable woman, whom I had married from affection, and raised to affluence; and she thought, out of gratitude to me, she must be happy as I chose. The only path of felicity before us seemed that of fashion; and so we plunged into all the gayeties of our gay city. And for eight or ten years we lived a life of constant bustle, excitement, show, and apparent mirth. Yet, Arthur, I declare to you I was never satisfied with myself, never contented during the whole time. I do not say I was wretched—that would be too strong an expression—but I was restless. The excitements of pleasure stimulate; they never satisfy. And then there was a constant succession of disagreements, rivalries, and slanders, arising from trifling things; but those whose great business it was to regulate fashionable society contrived to make great matters out of these molehills. Your mother was a sweet-tempered woman, forbearing and forgiving, as a true woman should be; but, nevertheless, she used sometimes to be involved in these bickerings, and then what scenes of accusation and explanation must be endured before the matter could be finally settled, and harmony restored! and what precious time was wasted on questions of etiquette which, after all, made no individual better, wiser, or happier.

We lived thus nearly ten years, and might have dreamed away our lives in this round of trifling, had not Heaven awakened us by a stroke, severe indeed, but I trust salutary. We had, as you know, Arthur, three children, a son and two daughters. Fashion had never absorbed our souls so as to overpower natural affection. We did love our children most dearly, and every advantage money could purchase had been lavished upon them. They were fair flowers, but, owing to the delicacy of their rearing, very frail. One after the other sickened; the croup was fatal to our little Mary; the measles and the scarlet fever destroyed the others. In six months they were all at peace.

Never, never can the feeling of desolation I then experienced be effaced from my heart. A house of mourning had no attraction for our fashionable friends. They pitied, but deserted us; the thought of our wealth only made us more miserable; the splendor which surrounded, seemed to mock us.

"For what purpose," I frequently asked myself, "for what purpose had been all my labor? I might heap up, but a stranger would inherit." My wife was more tranquil, but then her disposition was to be resigned. Still she yielded, I saw, to the gloom of grief, and I feared the consequences. But her mind was differently employed from what I had expected.

She asked me one day if there was no method in which I could employ my wealth to benefit others.

I inquired what she meant.

"I am weary," said she, "of this pomp of wealth. It is nothingness; or worse, it is a snare. I feel that our children have been taken from the temptations of the world, which we were drawing around them. There is surely, my husband, some object more worthy the time and hearts of Christians than this pursuit of pleasure."

These observations may seem only the commonplace remarks of a saddened spirit; but to me they were words fitly spoken. They opened a communion of sentiment between us, such as we had never before enjoyed. I had often felt the vanity of our fashionable life, but thought my wife was happier for the display, and that it would be cruel for me to deprive her of amusements I could so well afford, and which she so gracefully adorned. And I did not see what better use to make of my riches. But the spell of the world was broken when we began to reason together of its folly, and strengthen each other to resist its enticements.

Man is sovereign of the world; but a virtuous woman is the crown of her husband; and this proverb was doubtless intended to teach us that the highest excellences of the human character, in either sex, are attainable only by the aid of each other.

I could fill a volume with our conversations on these subjects; but the result is the most important; we resolved to make the aim of doing good the governing principle of our lives and conduct.

And these resolutions, by the blessing of God, we were enabled, in a measure, to fulfil. Our fashionable friends ascribed the alteration in our habits and manners to melancholy for the loss of our children; but it was a course entered on with the firm conviction of its superior advantages both of improvement and happiness. We realized more than we anticipated. There is a delight in the exertion of our benevolent faculties which seems nearly allied to the joy of the angles in heaven—for these are ministering spirits. And this felicity the rich may command.

In a few years after we had entered on our new mode of life, you, my son, were bestowed to crown our blessings. We felt that the precious trust was a trial of our faith. To have an heir to our fortune was a temptation to selfishness; to have an heir to our name was a cord to draw us again into the vortex of the world. But we did not look back. We resolved to train you to enjoy active habits and benevolent pleasures. It was for this purpose I used to take you, when a little child, with me to visit the poor, permitting you to give the money you had earned of me by feats of strength or dexterity to those you thought needed it. And when you grew larger you recollect, probably, how steadily you would work in the shop, with your little tools, finishing tiny boxes, &c., that your mother or I paid you for at stated prices, which money you appropriated to the support of the poor families in —— Street. By these means we gave you a motive for exertions which improved your health and made you happy, and we gave you, also, an opportunity of taking thought for others, and enjoying the pleasure of relieving the destitute. The love for our fellow-beings, like all other feelings, must be formed by the wish, and improved by the habit of doing them good. We never paid you for mental efforts or moral virtues, because we thought these should find their reward in the pleasure improvement communicated to your own heart and mind, aided by our caresses and commendations which testified the pleasure your conduct gave us.

Thus you see, my son, that in all the restrictions we imposed, and indulgences we permitted, it was our grand object to make you a good, intelligent, useful, and happy man. We endeavored to make wisdom's ways those of pleasantness to you; and I feel confident that the course your parents have marked will be followed by you so far as your conscience and reason shall approve.

You will find yourself what the world calls rich. To human calculation, had I rigidly sought my own interest in all my business, I should have left you a much larger fortune. But who knows that the blessing which has crowned all my enterprises would not have been withdrawn had such selfish policy governed me? I thank my Saviour that I was inspired with a wish to serve my fellow-men. And my greatest regret now arises from the reflection that with such means I have done so little good. Endeavor, my son, to exceed your father in righteousness. The earth is the Lord's; consider yourself only as the steward over the portion he has assigned you. Enter into business, not to add to your stores of wealth, but as the best means of making that wealth useful to the cause of human improvement. And let the honorable acquisition and the generous distribution go on together. The man, whose heart of marble must be smitten by the rod of death before a stream of charity can gush forth, deserves little respect from the living. To give what we can no longer enjoy is not charity; that heavenly virtue is only practised by those who enjoy what they give.

I do not undervalue charitable bequests. These may be of great public utility; and, when they harmonize with the example of the testators, they deserve grateful acknowledgment and everlasting remembrance. But I cannot commend as a model the character of a man who has been exclusively devoted all his life to amassing property, because he acquires the means of leaving a large charitable donation at his decease. This seems to be making virtue a penance rather than a pleasure.

I wish you, my son, to frame for yourself a system of conduct, founded on the rational as well as religious principle of doing to others as you would they should do to you; and then your life as well as death will be a public blessing. Another great advantage will be, you can hold on your consistent, Christian course to the end. You need never retire from business in order to enjoy yourself. But I must shorten what I would wish to say were my own strength greater, or my confidence in your character less firm. There is one other subject to which I must refer.

Your dear mother, as you well know, adopted Ellen Gray, and intended to educate the girl in every respect like a child. After your mother's death, I placed the child under the care of Mrs. C., where she has ever since remained. You know but little of Ellen, for you entered college soon after she came to our house, and have been mostly absent since; but when you return it will be necessary you should, as her guardian and the only friend she has a claim upon, become acquainted with her. She is now at the winning age of seventeen, and very lovely in person and disposition; one that I should be proud to call my daughter.

Her mother was the dear friend of your mother, and that circumstance, which first induced us to take the orphan, joined with her own sweetness and affectionate gratitude, has deeply endeared her to me. And now, when I am gone, she will feel her loneliness, for she has no blood relation in the world. You, Arthur, will have a delicate part to act as the son of her benefactor, and the person whom in the singleness and simplicity of her pure heart she will think she has a right to confide in, to preserve that just measure of kindness and dignity which will satisfy her you are her friend, and make the world understand you intend never to be more. I have secured her an independence, and provided that she shall remain, for the present, with Mrs. C. May the Father of the orphan guard her and bless her! She loved your mother, Arthur, and for that you must be to her a brother.

And now, my son, farewell! I feel my hour has nearly come; and I am ready and willing to depart. My last days have been, by the blessing of the Almighty, made my best. I have lived to the last, and been able to accomplish most of the plans which lay nearest my heart. Do not grieve that I am at rest; but arouse all your energies for the work that is before you. In a country and age distinguished by such mighty privileges, it requires warm hearts, and strong minds, and liberal hands, to devise, and dare, and do. May God preserve, strengthen, and bless you!

Your affectionate father,
J. LLOYD.

I am glad, thought Arthur, as he wiped away his tears, after reading the letter for the third time in the course of the day—I am glad my father has left me perfectly free respecting Ellen. Had he expressed a wish that I should marry her, it would have been to me sacred as the laws of the Medes and Persians. Yet I might have felt it a fetter on my free will; and so capricious is fancy, I should not, probably, have loved the girl as I now hope to love her, that is, if she will love me—as a brother.

CHAPTER II.

"It seems strange our children should be so perverse; we have always given them good counsel," said a lady, whose darling son had just been sent to sea as the last scheme parental anxiety could devise for his reformation.

Good counsel is a very good thing, doubtless; but, to make it effectual, we must convince our children that goodness is pleasure. I once saw a lady punishing her little son for playing on the Sabbath. The boy sat sobbing and sulky, and his mother, whose heart melted at his tears, while her sense of duty forbade her to indulge him, turned to me and said—

"The Sabbath is a most trying day; I can keep it myself, though it is dull; but my children have nothing to occupy their minds, and they will be in mischief. I am always glad when the Sabbath is over."

The children looked up, very pleasantly, at this, and probably thought their mother hated the Sabbath as truly as they did; and they might reason it would be a pleasure to her if there were no Sabbaths.

The elder Mr. Lloyd managed things better. He maintained that children were inclined to good or tempted to evil by the influences of their education; that the fear of losing a pleasure operated more forcibly on their hearts than the fear of incurring a punishment; and, consequently, that we must make the way in which we would have them go seem so pleasant by our own gladness while treading it, that they may be inclined to follow us from choice.

"It is a poor compliment to virtue, if her votaries must be always sad," he would say; "and the peace and good-will which the Gospel was given expressly to diffuse over the earth should not make men gloomy and children miserable."

What he commended he practised. In forming the character of Arthur, he was careful to make him distinguish between the happiness which in his own heart he enjoyed, and that which others might flatter him with possessing.

"The reason why so many are blind to their best interests," Mr. Lloyd would say, "is because they will trust to their neighbors' eyes rather than their own. I intend Arthur shall see for himself. Had Bonaparte done what his own heart approved, he would have preserved freedom and the republic; but he wanted the world should flatter him, that posterity should honor him, and so he violated his integrity of purpose, and grasped a crown that proved but a shadow."

It would be very gratifying to me to describe particularly the manner of Arthur Lloyd's domestic education, the means which were employed to draw forth his powers, ascertain his peculiar talents, and exercise and direct these as they were developed. But it is now my purpose rather to display effects than trace causes. Yet one thing must be noted; his father's great aim, after religious training, was to cultivate the reason and judgment of his son. Mathematics and natural philosophy had been made to occupy a prominent place in his studies.

"The pleasures these pursuits confer," Mr. Lloyd would wisely remark, "cannot be enjoyed without self-exertion. Any man who has money may obtain the reputation of taste by the mere purchasing of works of art, while his own mind is as inert as the canvas or statue on which he gazes with so much seeming admiration. But he who would gain credit for understanding mathematical sciences or natural philosophy, must deserve it by patient toil and persevering industry. Now, this thirst for knowledge, which must be won by personal exertion, is the talisman which will effectually secure the rich man from the torment of ennui; and, if with this knowledge be united the disposition to make his talents and means of doing good serviceable to the world, his own happiness is secure as that derived from earthly objects can be."

So thought the father, and so he trained his son to think.

"I did not expect to find you thus deeply at work," said George Willet, a classmate, who had called on Arthur shortly after he was settled in his home. "Why, the arrangement of all these minerals and shells and insects must be an endless task. If I had as much money as you, I would purchase my cabinets ready furnished."

"So would I, if all I wanted was to exhibit them," replied Arthur, pleasantly.

"And what more important purpose do you intend these shall serve?"

"I intend they shall contribute to my own gratification and improvement," said Arthur. "There is hardly a specimen here but has its history, which awakens some pleasant association of heart, memory, or mind. Some were presented by men I honor, and some by friends I love. This curious shell was the gift of a lady on my last birthday; and the benignant wishes that accompanied it made me, I trust, a better man; or, at least, they inspired me with new resolutions to deserve her commendations. These petrifactions and fossils are a memento of many delightful hours I have spent with some of the noble French naturalists and philosophers. That beetle, I could tell you a long story about it, the time I spent in watching its habits, the pains I took to assure myself it was a nondescript, and the pleasure I enjoyed when the great Cuvier complimented me for my patience and research—but I fear you would think this all nonsense."

"It is not what I should go to Paris to learn," returned the other. "But then I must think of my profession; a physician is the slave of the public. You can use your time as you please, and are not compelled to coin it into money in order to live."

"No; but I have had as hard a lesson perhaps. I have had to learn that money will not buy happiness, and that he who is not compelled to labor for food must labor for an appetite, which, in the end, amounts to about the same thing."

"You were always stoically inclined, Arthur; but a young man with a million at command will find it rather difficult to act the philosopher. The world has a powerful current, and fashion a sweeping breeze."

"They will not move me from my course, George: that is fixed, and, with Heaven's blessing, I will hold on my way. My father's example is my chart, and the Christian rule my compass."

"You think so now—-well, we shall see. Your father was a good man and a happy one, and that is much in your favor. Had you witnessed, as I have done, the weary, monotonous, heartless, wretched life many who call themselves good undergo, and, what is worse, inflict on others, you would not have much inclination for goodness."

"Your remarks, George, are just. I have known young men plunge into dissipation avowedly to shake off the restraints of morality which had been imposed in a manner so galling. And I have known others hold business in abhorrence only because the selfish, slavish life their fathers had led made application seem a drudgery. I trust I have more rational views—thanks to my good parents!"

No man should say he will be always wise. Who would guess that Arthur, so calm, rational, and discriminating, would have fallen in love with a coquette? But this he did, notwithstanding the penchant he intended to cultivate for the pretty Ellen Gray. My lady readers probably thought she was predestined to be his wife, and I should have been glad to describe the tender and tranquil loves of two beings who seemed so congenial. But authors cannot control fate.

Arthur Lloyd was, to be sure, deeply interested with Ellen's meek and innocent beauty, and he was touched to the heart by the unaffected sorrow which any allusion to his parents would excite in her manner, even when she controlled the expression of her grief, which she could not always. And he often thought nothing could be more lovely than her fair face, rather pale perhaps; but then the predominance of the lily seemed to be the effect of purity of mind, not languor of body, when contrasted with the deep mourning habiliments which he knew were in truth the outward token of that sadness of spirit which she was cherishing for the loss of those who had also been the dearest to him. Could they choose but sympathize? If they did, it was very secretly and silently.

It might be that this necessity for communion was the very cause which prevented Arthur from feeling other than a brother's affection for the sweet girl whose interests he was deputed to defend; and, on her part, there hardly seemed a sister's confidence yielded to her young guardian. A guardian! Who ever read of a lady falling in love with her guardian? The impossibility of the circumstance seemed fully understood and acted upon by the belles of New York, who were sedulous to attract the attention of such a fine man as Arthur Lloyd. But he was not disposed to mingle much in society; and, during the year which succeeded his father's death, he was almost wholly engrossed with his business and various plans for promoting public education and elevating the character of our national literature. This was the favorite object to which he resolved to devote his energies and his resources. He was persuaded that a republican people must derive their chief happiness and their highest honors from intellectual pursuits, if they intend their institutions shall be permanent. The glories of conquest and the luxuries of wealth alike tend to make the few masters and the many slaves; but, if the mild light of science and literature be the guide of a people, all will move onward together, for the impulse of knowledge has an attractive force that elevates, proportionally, every mind over which its influence can be extended.

Such were Arthur Lloyd's sentiments; and it would have been strange if he had not felt a deep respect for the character of the Puritans, and a wish to cultivate an acquaintance with New England people, who, whatever be their faults, have rarely sinned through ignorance.

So Arthur visited Boston during the summer of 18—, and received from the ÉlÈves of society all that courtesy and hospitality which a rich stranger is sure to elicit. He could hardly be termed a stranger, however, for his father had many commercial friends in Boston, and they cordially transferred their favor to the son. Everything was calculated to make Arthur think highly of the people; the tone of intelligent and liberal feeling appeared the result of the liberality which had laid the foundation of popular instruction, and young Lloyd became every day more satisfied of the truth of his favorite theory, namely, educate all the children and you will reform all the world. A man is never more self-satisfied than when he is confirming a favorite theory.

Among the multitude of friends and flatterers that surrounded Arthur, none charmed him so completely as the Hon. Mr. Markley and family. The gentleman was himself very eloquent, his lady very elegant, and their daughters exceedingly fascinating. They all exerted their talents to please Arthur; it was no more than he merited, a stranger and a guest, and so handsome and intelligent and agreeable! Who thought he was worth a million? Not the Markleys; for they were never heard to speak of a selfish sentiment except to condemn it. Arthur thought he never met with a more disinterested family.

Arabella Markley was a most captivating creature, and she soon contrived to make Arthur sensible of it; and he found, to his mortification, that he had not so fully and firmly the mastery of his own mind as he had flattered himself with possessing. Love exhibits much the same symptoms in the wise as the weak; and Arthur, when beside Arabella, forgot there was for him any higher object in this world than to please a woman. But sometimes in the solitude of his chamber other thoughts would arise; he could not but see that the Markleys were devoted to fashion and gayety, though Arabella had assured him she did not enjoy the bustle, but that excitement was necessary for her father's spirits and health.

If she makes this sacrifice for her father, thought Arthur, how gladly will she conform to my quiet domestic plan! Still there was something in the expression of her face, and more in her manner, which denoted a fondness for show and variety; and whenever Arthur wrote to Ellen Gray, which he often did, as he had promised to give her the history of his tour, the contrast between her beauty and that of Arabella always came over his mind. He described Arabella in one of his letters to Ellen, and concluded with observing: "If she had a little more of your tenderness and placidity in the expression of her eyes, she would be a perfect model of female loveliness; but that would make her too angelic, the arch vivacity of her glance assures her to be human, and susceptible of human sympathies."

Ellen Gray read that passage over and over; but she never answered the letter, for Arthur returned to New York before she could arrange her thoughts for a reply.

Arthur left Boston without any explanation, as they say, though he had been several times on the point of making the love speech. It seemed as if some spell were restraining him, for Arabella had given him opportunities of seeing her alone, and Mr. and Mrs. Markley had evidently sought to draw him to their parties. Perhaps this solicitude had been one means of deferring the proposals. Lloyd found himself so agreeably entertained, he could hardly wish to be happier. Like the Frenchman who would not marry the lady he admired and visited constantly, because he should have no place to pass his evenings, Arthur Lloyd might have been fearful that certainty would have made his visits, which were hailed as favors, appear only events of course. Young gentlemen have thus reasoned.

Arabella was sadly disappointed, for she had really acted her part most admirably, and she expected to succeed. She knew the power of her charms, and, fond of flattery as she was, had resolved such unsubstantial coin should never gain her hand. A coquette by nature and habit, she had managed to draw many distinguished beaux in her train, but none, till Arthur had appeared, had been rich enough to satisfy her ambition. However, he had agreed to correspond, and she knew well how to draw an inference or frame a remark which would render it necessary for him to explain.

So they parted, both persuaded in their own hearts that they should soon meet, though he did not feel that the choice was one his parents would entirely have approved. But her letters might prove her excellence; he knew the fashionable scenes in which he had chiefly beheld her were not calculated to display the amiable traits of character in a woman. There were several circumstances which occurred to Arthur, as he journeyed homeward, that determined him to be guarded in his letters, at least for a season. And he determined also to consult Ellen Gray on the subject; he considered her as having a sister's right to his confidence. But Ellen was very ill, he found, and any allusion to the fair lady he had seen in Boston seemed difficult to introduce to one who looked so sad and serious. Nevertheless, he ventured to name the subject once, and Ellen listened calmly to all his praises of Arabella; and to his reiterated request that his sister, as he called Ellen, should give him her opinion.

She advised him to marry the lady if he loved her, and felt assured she loved him. The last remark was spoken in a low tone, and Mrs. C., the preceptress, entering at that moment, thought Ellen was too much fatigued for further conversation. And so it proved, for she was seriously ill for several days after, and it was weeks before she was able to see Arthur again.

In the mean time, the correspondence between Mr. Lloyd and Miss Markley commenced with spirit; on his part, rather intended to fathom her principles and taste than her affections; and on hers, under an appearance of careless vivacity, to ascertain his real intentions respecting her. There is nothing like a little jealousy for expediting love matters, many ladies believe; and Arabella held the creed fully, as her third letter proved. It was filled with the description and praises of an emigrant Frenchman, Count de Verger, who had recently arrived in Boston. His merits could be equalled only by his misfortunes, which had been manifold as those of Ulysses. His courage and constancy had hitherto borne him up; but, when he arrived penniless on the shore of the New World, his mental sufferings were, as Arabella described them, extreme. In Europe, a man was respected for his birth and breeding, and, though he had lost his property, his rank entitled him to consideration. But, in our republic, where men were judged by their own merits, not by their father's title, the unlucky Count de Verger feared that his misfortunes might be imputed as crimes. He could endure poverty, but not contempt. He had once resolved to conceal his rank, and even his name; but his abhorrence of falsehood and hypocrisy enabled him to overcome this false pride, and so he was known for a nobleman, though he modestly disclaimed all intention of endeavoring to support his rank. If he could earn sufficient by his talents and accomplishments to maintain himself, he felt that he should be truly happy. Among his accomplishments was that of playing the harp with a surprising degree of skill, when it was considered that he had only practised for his own amusement. But he now thought it possible he might make this knowledge of music available, if any of the fair ladies of Boston should feel disposed to take lessons on the harp. His wonderful condescension was no sooner known than there appeared a competition among fashionable ladies who should first secure the services of this amiable and gifted nobleman. His tuition charges were exorbitant; but he was a foreigner, and a count; and, besides, he had been unfortunate, and republicans must pay liberally for the graces which can only be taught by those who have witnessed the refinements of royal taste and the magnificence of courts.

These were the items of intelligence Arabella dilated upon with touching pathos in her letter to Arthur Lloyd; she was in raptures with the Count de Verger. Such an accomplished scholar! so perfect and gentlemanly! His mind was a constellation of all brilliant qualities; his manners the embodied essence of suavity and elegance! There were but two objections the most fastidious critic could make to his appearance He squinted a little; but Arabella did not dislike a slight cast of the eye, it rather gave a fascinating effect to a handsome countenance. The other fault was, in her opinion, a perfection. The count wore moustaches (this was before beards were the rage), and our smooth, Puritan-faced men of business disliked moustaches; but Arabella was glad the ladies had more taste for the picturesque. For her part, she should for the future make it a sine qua non with all gentlemen who aspired to her friendship to cultivate moustaches. It was needless to say she was learning to play the harp; it might more properly be called adoring it. She was never before so engrossed with any pursuit; and she only wished, to complete her felicity, that Mr. Lloyd could become acquainted with her tutor, and witness the proficiency she was making.

"Fudge!" said Arthur, giving audible expression to his thoughts, as he kicked a fallen brand with the petulance of a poet, forgetting there was poker, tongs, or servants in the world. "Fudge! wears moustaches and squints! I'll see the fellow!"

Arthur was sensible he felt disappointed, not so much that Arabella proved a coquette as that his estimate of the effect of education on the female mind should be found false. He had drawn his conclusions logically; thus: Virtuous and intelligent women are sincere and reasonable; New England ladies are virtuous and intelligent; therefore, they are sincere and reasonable. And yet here was one who had enjoyed every mental and moral advantage a lady could require to perfect her character acting the part of an artful coquette; or otherwise she was a silly dupe, for the story of the Count de Verger Arthur credited no more than the adventures of Baron Munchausen.

He did not write to Arabella to announce his intention of visiting her, fearing the count might, in that case, retire for a season, and he much wished to see him. So Arthur reached Boston and astonished his friends, who could find no solution for the sudden movement but that he had learned the danger there was that Miss Markley would be won by the gallant Frenchman; and all the inquiries he made respecting the count he had the mortification of finding were regarded as the promptings of a jealous spirit seeking to find matter of accusation against a rival. Many of the gentlemen whom he addressed on the subject declared their belief that the professor of the harp was a real count, his bearing and manner were decidedly noble, and there was a thoroughbred air in his address which distinguished foreigners of high rank, and which our richest and most eminent men, who were always compelled to speak of themselves as plain citizens, and only enjoying equal privileges with the people, never could display.

"I would give fifty thousand," said a young mercantile gentleman, whose father had, by careful industry, amassed a large fortune, "if I could appear with the ease and elegance of the Count de Verger. I met him the other day at the dinner party of Mr. ——, and I assure you he was the lion of the day. It is no wonder the ladies admire him."

"No, it is no wonder," thought Arthur, "that our ladies despise us for not possessing the manners of slaves, while we men so undervalue and abuse our privilege of being free. If fashion and etiquette are to be considered the most important objects of pursuit among those who assume the first place in our society, we shall always be inferior to the nobles where distinctions of rank and descent of property are so established that fashion and etiquette can have trained subjects and established laws. We republicans must have our standard of respectability founded on moral worth, usefulness, and intelligence, or the discrepancy between our institutions and manners will make us ridiculous in the eyes of other nations, and contemptible in that of our own. But I will see this count, and, if he prove to be my old valet"——

Compressing his lips, as if to prevent the expression of a hasty resolve, he bent his steps to the dwelling of Mr. Markley.

It was in the morning, and too early for a fashionable call; but Arthur had learned that the Count de Verger gave lessons to Miss Markley at half past ten; and that the young lady frequently admitted her particular friends to congratulate her respecting the astonishing progress she made on the harp. Mr. Lloyd was known to the servants as a favored visitor, and found no difficulty in being admitted, and ushered familiarly into the parlor where Arabella was practising. There were two ladies, her intimate friends, and one gentleman present. Neither Arabella nor the count noticed the entrance of Mr. Lloyd, and he stood for several minutes regarding them. Arabella was playing with enthusiasm; it was evident she was charmed with her own performance; her noble teacher sat beside her, the music-book open in his hand, his small keen eyes cast partly upward in admiration; but, as his oblique glance could rest on the face of his fair pupil, it was not certain whether her beauty or her music caused his raptures.

"Martin!" said Mr. Lloyd, in a deep, commanding tone.

The count started to his feet, every nerve agitated as though he had received a shock from a galvanic battery.

"Jean Martin, how came you here?" continued Mr. Lloyd, sternly.

"I—I am not here—that is, you mistake—I am the Count de Verger."

Mr. Lloyd walked closely up to the impostor.

"Villain, let me hear no more of your falsehoods! Away, instantly, or you shall answer for your crimes."

The accomplished nobleman obeyed the order promptly as it was given, bolting from the apartment without the ceremony of a single bow. There was blank silence for a moment; then Arabella indignantly inquired the reason of such a proceeding in her father's house, and without her father's knowledge.

"Pardon me, Miss Markley," said Arthur; "I am aware my conduct requires explanation. That fellow was my valet. I hired him in Paris: shrewd, ingenious, and attentive, he won my confidence, and for many months I treated him more like a friend than servant. He accompanied me to Germany, and there found means to rob me of a considerable sum of money, besides a casket of jewelry I had in my charge, belonging to a banker of Paris, and for which I was responsible. Martin escaped, and I had no idea of ever meeting him again, till your eloquent description of the Count de Verger awakened my suspicions. I came here therefore unceremoniously, for which I again beg pardon; but trust you and your father will not regret the impostor is detected and exposed."

"You must be mistaken, Mr. Lloyd. This gentleman is a real count; I have seen his coat of arms, and seals, and rings."

Just then Mr. Markley entered, the whole affair was detailed, and Mr. Lloyd produced an order, which had been granted by the Austrian government, for the apprehension of Jean Martin for the robbery; the paper contained a particular description of his person, and all, except Arabella, were convinced of the identity of the ci-devant valet and the elegant Count de Verger.

"It is impossible a person so exquisitely skilled in music and every accomplishment can be of base extraction and character," sighed Arabella.

"You fancied him noble, and invested him with all rare qualities. It is true, he has some skill in music; but he played vastly better for his title. Should you hear him as Martin"——

The lady turned her head scornfully, taking care, at the same time, to wreath her features in a very sweet smile—the scorn was intended for Martin, the smile for Mr. Lloyd; and then she requested the latter to tell her all the particulars, saying that she felt under the greatest obligations for the care he had shown to detect an imposition which she could never have suspected, and in which the whole town participated.

Arthur might have complied with her request; he might even have forgiven her taking lessons of his valet and honoring him as a nobleman, for he was aware that other ladies had been deceived by Martin, and that his own sex had favored the impostor because he pretended to a title; but, as she extended her hand in token of amity, his eye caught a brilliant on her finger; he knew it was one of the banker's jewels.

"That was the gift of Martin," said he.

"Of the Count de Verger," she stammered.

Arthur bade her good-morning.

The next day he left Boston, but not before he had learned that the count had decamped, leaving his landlord's bill and sundry loans of money from honorable men undischarged.

"It will teach me wisdom, I hope," said one gentleman. "I will never again lend money to the count when I would not trust it to the man."

Arthur Lloyd was blamed by some prudent people for the abruptness of his proceedings in the affair, as it severely wounded the feelings of the Markleys. Arabella did not recover from this shock till after she learned that Mr. Lloyd had wedded the pretty Ellen Gray, when she sent him a congratulating letter, which ended their correspondence.

I wish I could describe the course Arthur Lloyd is now pursuing without incurring the charge of personality. There are so few like him that the picture would be instantly recognized. But I can repeat two of his favorite maxims.

The first, "We must educate our sons to consider the title of Republican a prouder boast than the highest order of nobility that implies subjection, and requires homage to a mortal."

Second, "We must train our daughters to respect talent in a man more than money, and a character for usefulness more than a showy exterior; to consider their countrymen superior to the men of every other nation; and, above all things, never to receive the present of a ring, except from a near relative or an accepted lover."