ever, Wilkinson was at her heels; when, to escape him altogether, she heedlessly opened the first door she came near, and running into the room turned the key, so as effectually to prevent his entrance.

It often happens that to avoid one evil we run into a greater. It was customary with Culpepper every afternoon to take an hour's siesta on a couch in his chamber, as had been his wonted habit abroad, and-how shall I relate it?-into this room Julia had now fastened herself, whilst he lay sleeping behind her. The first intimation she received of this circumstance was hearing a deep breathing (we will not say snoring)-she turned round, and the existing state of affairs became at once unfolded. Uttering a loud scream she endeavoured to open the door, forgetting that it was locked, and the noise thus occasioned aroused our hero, who, starting up, demanded what was the matter.

"Ob, sir! that odious Wilkinsonthe misletoe-a kiss!"

Julia could no more: wounded delicacy, confusion, and affright, conspired to overpower her, and she burst into tears; but in another moment she peeped through her fingers and laughed, as Culpepper stood, with the utmost composure, awaiting the conclusion of her speech.

"Go, you little crocodile," said he, smiling. "Had I any vanity I should swear that you only avoided Mr. Wilkinson's kisses to gain one of mine.' Julia looked bashfully downwards at this inuendo, and seemed sedulously employed in describing a circle on the floor with her pointed foot. "But,' added Kit, kindly, "foul fall the man who would, unpermitted, venture to taste those roseate, innocent lips!" and, as if to inspire her with confidence in his words, he unlocked and opened the door.

Julia looked up with beaming eyes. "You are all that is generous," she said, "and I scarce know how to repay the kindness which you are continually showing me."

"Were I permitted, I could point out a way," said Christopher, with that benevolent simplicity of tone which was so distinguishing a charac

teristic of his unsuspecting and openhearted nature.

"Could you indeed?" said Julia, archly.

"Ay, in very deed. We have now, my sweet coz, been acquainted three weeks, which is, I think, ample time for any person to study the disposition of another, and I confess that during the whole of that time my heart has been yours. I loved you at our first interview-nay, I loved you before, when I heard your cherub lips pour forth the strains of welcome. How say you, then, will you rob the old bachelors' list of a member, and take me for better or for worse?"

All this time Julia's foot was busier than ever, and again was she employed in describing circles, squares, and triangles, with accurate nicety, on the floor. At length she once more raised her blue eyes with an expression of the most enchanting candour. "And have you really the temerity to make this offer, knowing all my girlish follies as you do?" she said, in a voice of melody.

Yes; and will submit to be plagued by them for ever," said Culpepper.

a

"Then," returned Julia, with modest blush, and putting her hand through his arm, “I give you permission to come and talk with iny father."

"You are a very sensible girl," said Kit, leading her down stairs, "and have the most concise method of settling business of any persc 1 ever encountered."

When the pair entered the parlour, they were saluted with considerable raillery; more particularly Julia, who was unmercifully bantered for having, to avoid one man, shut herself up with another.

"Well!" interrupted Culpepper, bluntly, "and by doing so she has obtained what many present have dressed and coquetted for these ten years past."

"What is that? what is that?" echoed every mouth.

"A lover, ladies! I despise mys tery, and hate procrastination; therefore, before all here assembled, I beg to propose myself as a son-in-law to Sir John Ashfield."

"My dear sir, you make me the happiest of men," cried the knight, springing across the room, and grasping Kit's hand. "I shall be proud of an alliance with so illustrious a gentleman, but I fear my girl is scarcely worthy of your attention, as her for tune is by no means great."

"Riches I do not require," said Christopher, "I only ask for one gem -Julia's white hand. I am happy to say that my prospects at present are tolerably favourable, and, until they become more so, I shall willingly settle upon her a moiety of my possessions."

Here the assembly with one accord rose, like a congregation in a church after the Litany, and re-seated themselves with great sensation. "This is being too generous," cried Sir John in ecstasy, "and will make the paltry ten thousand pounds, which is her allotted portion, appear as nothing in comparison."

"And so I am to be thus choused out of Julia, after having been her slave for a whole twelvemonth," cried Mr. Adolphus Timkins, in a dolorous tone.

"Pooh !" said Christopher, and rising with some emotion, he left the

room.

Heretofore our hero had suffered matters to take their course, until the strange mistake which seemed to exist in the family was explained. Sometimes, indeed, he had resolved to speak with his uncle on the subject, but that self-important personage was so addicted to talking himself, in preference to hearing others do so, that he invariably put words into Christopher's mouth, and replied to them himself, so that an eclaircissement was for some time impossible. Now, how ever, the rectitude of Kit's principles would not permit him to remain longer silent; he perceived that an idea existed of his being worth money, and he would have been content to let his relations dupe themselves with the thought till doomsday: but to deceive the innocent Julia, by accepting her hand and fortune without any adequate advantages on his side, was more than he could persuade himself to do. His declaration of love was made without

due reflection upon the consequences, and, although delighted with Julia's acceptance of it, he yet resolved not to repay her confidence by the heartless deception which he must be guilty of, if he did not confess the truth. Accordingly he sought her out, and requested a private interview, which she immediately granted.

"Julia," said he, in his usual straight forward way, on seating himself by her side, "I have come to recant my confession of love, and to return the heart which I fondly hoped was mine for ever."

Julia turned pale, but in another moment an indignant flush crossed her brow, as she, with assumed calmness, said, "Perhaps, sir, you will favour me with your motives for this humourous conduct."

"Such is my intention," said Culpepper. "Because I am too poor to deserve you." He then gave her a short history of his life, described his perplexity at recent circumstances, and concluded by unfolding his reasons for the present avowal.

"Noble-minded man!" exclaimed Julia, with winning enthusiasm, after a pause of some moments. "This guileless conduct increases my esteem tenfold. Here is my hand, and with it what little affluence I possess; and poor indeed is the gift, compared with the heart you have bestowed upon me."

He took

Culpepper was overcome. both of Julia's hands and pressed them to his lips-a tear spoke volumes of what he felt. "But how," he at last said, "are we to contrive about Sir John, as in a very short time the eyes of all parties must be opened."

"That I am aware of," replied Julia. "I could, was there time, explain the cause of your present popularity with the family; but it is more signally important that we should devise measures for present security."

66

Being so much in the dark, I must leave that task to you, dear Julia," said Christopher.

Julia seemed to hesitate, as, with a blush, she said, "Custom has assigned a standard for female delicacy, which all our sex abide by, yet there are occasions that demand its trans

"I know what you would say; but as they believe you to be a self-willed, strange sort of being, you may easily pass inuster, by undertaking in the deed to give one half of whatever property you may be found to be worth when the vessel is unladen."

Culpepper liked this scheme so well, that he immediately acted upon it; and succeeded so admirably that three days afterwards the indentures were duly signed, sealed, and delivered, in the presence of proper witnesses.

The preliminaries of one marriage being thus settled, preparations_were made for that between the Rev. Edgar Manners and Miss Jessica Ashfield, and at the end of another three days the happy pair were united. On returning to Isinglass Hall, Anthony "of that ilk" was surprised to see a cavalcade wind round the distant hills, which rather bore the appearance of an eastern procession, than a plain Englishman's equipage and retinue. The wedding party paused on reaching the hall, to look at it, and found, with some surprize, that it was approaching the spot where they stood. At last the procession came up, and a man, whose complexion was bronzed to a perfect copper colour, alighted slowly and haughtily from the first carriage, and advancing to Isinglass, coldly stretched out his hand, and said pompously, "I am glad to see you, sir. How do you do?”

Very well, thank you," said Isinglass, receding several paces at the unexpected salutation; then, as if a sudden idea had crossed him, he looked alternately at our hero and the stranger, and added, "And who the devil are you that inquire?"

The stranger seemed offended, and replied in a lofty tone, "I should not

have imagined that a mere fifteen years' absence would render such a question necessary. I am your nephew, Christopher Culpepper, and newly arrived from the East Indies." "And you?" cried Isinglass, turning to our hero.

"Am your nephew, Christopher Culpepper, cousin to that gentleman, and newly arrived from the West Indies."

Be assured, dear reader, it was by a pure oversight that I omitted to inform you, at the commencement of this record, that the nomenclatures of the two Culpeppers were precisely the same, and that in a very few years after Culpepper the poor ran away from home, a fracas broke out between Christopher Culpepper the rich and Isinglass, which ended in the departure of the former for the East Indies, under the auspices of a wealthy relation, who held a high office in the Company's service. Twenty years had elapsed since the poor boy's departure, and fifteen since that of the rich one. The former had returned with four thousand pounds, and the latter with nearly a million. Culpepper the poor was honourable, generous, and humane; Culpepper the rich was proud, stingy, and hard-hearted.

Every thing was now explained. Isinglass had received a letter from his rich nephew, announcing his intention of returning to England with all his riches, to settle for life; whereas Culpepper the poor, by an oversight, directed a blank sheet of paper to his uncle, instead of the letter which he had prepared to apprize him of his intended visit. The real letter he afterwards found rolled up as useless paper in a corner of his writing desk, when his luggage came on shore.

Thus was the mystery of Culpepper's reception cleared up, and thus were the favours and obsequious attentions which had been showered upon him so lavishly from all quarters, traced to their sordid source. He had been mistaken for his rich cousin, THE NABOB; the eagerness of Isinglass to propitiate him had prevented a discovery, and now that one was at last made, the base and hollow conduct of that person, with Sir John Ashfield,

Timkins, and Wilkinson, was rendered sufficiently obvious by their downcast looks at the inauspicious disclosure. However, a formal deed of gift, and an equally formal marriage contract were not easily annulled; and

the discomfited party were obliged to put the best face upon the matter, and leave our hero in undisturbed possession of the girl he loved, and ten thousand pounds, as the harvest of their ADULATION !

THE REPENTANT FALSE ONE,
To Her who should have been his Bride.
By the Rev. Thomas Dale.

YES; I have wandered from thy side,
Forsworn my plighted vow;
Forsook thee, when almost a bride :
And canst thou pardon now?
Though scarce, I deem, by aught
Heaven,

A crime like mine can be forgiven,
If earth has one, 'tis THOU;
For thine is pity's gentlest mood,
The grace, the gem of womanhood.
But dare I, faithless and forsworn,
My broken vows renew?
The outcast of another's scorn,

Can I for pardon sue?

save

For, oh! when most I seemed estranged,
Deem not thy wrongs were unavenged:
My heart was wounded too;
And fiercely on my guilty head,
Fell the stern stroke I merited.

I bowed me prostrate in the dust,
Before that righteous blow,
And felt the retribution just;

Then was I doomed to know
What, dearest, thou canst never prove,
If mine were pangs of slighted love;

The keenest pang below

Is to have known, and that was mine,
I wronged a heart so true as thine.
But, oh! if shame and solitude

Can e'er for falsehood pay;

If thoughts of madness, tears of blood,
Can wipe my guilt away;-

Those pangs were felt, those tears were shed.

The heart that wronged itself hath bled;
And must it bleed for aye?
Oh! write the words, "Thou art for-
given,"

And be, again, my guide to Heaven!

MARGARET.

By H. C. Deakin.

Yes, she was beautiful! but not that bright And breathless beauty that o'erpowers the soul

An instantaneous whirlwind of delight!

Her's were not lips ripe with the ready kiss,

The cheeks that shame the rose's richest bue,

The brow whose starry whiteness e'en outshone

The lustre of the twilight's silver line; Grief had consumed the crimson of her cheek,

Rifled the roses that were blooming there; And all that loveliness whose sway inspires Passion and madness in the youthful beart, Was, 'neath the blight of sickness and of woe,

Fled-like the happiness of other days, Remembered, but unfelt. Still was she fair,

And in the pensive sweetness of expression
Most beautiful, unearthly beautiful!
Her dark eye, full as is the orbed moon,
Shone through the tressy shine that edged
it in

With a most touching melancholy light.
Tall and aërial was her form, that bent
Beneath the weight of sorrow, like a flower
Before the blasts of heaven; it almost

seemed

A shadowy frame, transparent to the throes
Of agony within her glossy hair,
Black as the plumage of the raven's wing,
In clustering masses on her pure white
neck

Luxuriantly fell-her pallid brow
Came from beneath them, placid as a
child's:

The chill tranquillity of grief was there. Smiles, like star-beams, played upon her lips,

Whiter than they; for they had bid adieu To all impression, save of prayer to Heaven. Was she not beautiful, unearthly beautiful? If saint-like aspect, passionless and pure, Glances that came like music on the soul, Could make her beautiful, then was she so. She looked a bridal virgin of the skies, Whose smile could win all erring hearts

from sin,

And make them weep through sweetness of expression :

A perfect creature, moulded from this earth,

Yet made for worlds more innocent by far.

Triumphant virtue, silent suffering,
The power to bear and kiss the chast'ning
rod,

A sweet forgiveness of all others' faults,
A conscientious sorrow for her own,
A lip that breathed all melody of sound,
And sympathizing accent with a friend,
A heart too tender for this selfish world,
A mite for charity, a help for all,
Unmeeted piety, and boundless pity,
Had given her that serene, sublime ex-
pression,

Angels, we're told, possess, and few but they.

She loved! oh, yes, she loved, most dearly

loved !

For woman's heart, though pure as spring's first dawn,

Will, from its very purity alone,
Be more alive to that divine affection
That blendeth kindred spirits, makes our
joys,

Our hopes, fears, sorrows, all our feelings, one!

A virtuous heart is like a well-strung lyre,
For all its tones harmoniously respond
To the chaste touch that wooes its num.
bers forth.

'Twas thus with Margaret! she loved, was loved,

And in brief time was wedded--briefer time

Was widow'd! and that white rose cheek declared

The sting of death was piercing her frail form, That soon would grace the "Victory of the Grave!"

'Tis soothing thus to gaze on thee, Great Benefactor of thy kind! Whose liberal fount of charity

Hath, like a river unconfined, Flowed for two hundred years, and made Brightness and bloom 'mid waste and shade.

On thee more steadfast glory rests

Than warriors, or than poets claim; The blessings of ten thousand breasts

Have formed a balo round thy name; To thee ten thousand hearts have beat With grateful love, and filial heat.

Round thee life's current never freezed; Thou from the plough no look didst cast; But by the skirts Time's Angel seized,

..

And, till he blessed thee, held him fast; APRIL, 1832.

Till Heaven thy hoary years of peace Did richly bless, with large increase. Say, didst thou toil from love of gainWas gold, was sordid gold, the prize At labour's oar that bade thee strain?

That had such lustre in thine eyes?
No! thou hadst in thy nobler ken,
The wide love of thy fellow men.
From others' wrecks thou didst not task
Thy home in Luxury's gauds to shine;
Title or power thou didst not ask,

The patriarch of some noble line ;-
No! Thou hadst aims how far beyond
Ambition's sword, or Pleasure's wand.

Thou wert to be the orphan's sire,

When, one by one, each kindred face, Had perished from the household fire,

A voiceless home-a vanished race:-
A call, yea, even from out thy tomb,
Was to invite the wanderer home.

Uprose thy structures proud and high,
As by a necromancer's hand,
The temple of Philanthropy,

To bless and beautify the land;
A nursery-house to screen from blight;
A fane of intellectual light.

A table in the wilderness

Was spread for those who had no shield But God and thee in their distress; Left tillers of a barren field