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abstract of affairs, which was kept with remarkable clearness, saw reason to apprehend serious losses, if not ruin. This apprehension was increased by recent dates of loans to young men of doubtful stability. Indeed she was alarmed by his last words to her that morning: "Julia, the times are getting hard, even for the strongest if your father is ever pushed, you must let a fellow know." While these words were in one sense gratifying to her, they betrayed a look of caution that promised little for his own security, if current apprehensions should prove well founded.

Mr. Washington Swift, who had been unaccountably kind to old Miss Tyng, got money subscribed to pay off her mortgage of six hundred dollars, and expressed his desire to make her and her interesting niece comfortable, grew sweeter and sweeter very fast; and finally intimated that his affairs were so situated that his creditors might blame him if he married; but he was very desirous to make a private agreement with Miss Mary, which would be all the same. Now, this was last August. Whether he was courting any heiress at that date I never was informed; but I am informed that his commercial While she was engaged with these ac- kites were kept up by rumors to that counts, Jenny Smith, in great excitement effect. Now I need not tell you that and tears, and Eliza Williams, extremely Eliza is too honest, and too sensible, and pale, came into the room unannounced. too spirited, and has too much good taste, It is all over · the vile knave, brook- to go into such a concern; and the dressformer, quack-philosopher, insolent snob!es may go out of fashion, if they will." There will be no such concern as Swift and Williams: it is very lucky: But what do you think?"

Wait a moment, Jenny. Miss Williams, I am very glad you have called."

"I have called to ask your pardon for having treated you shamefully, and without the slightest cause."

"I am sure you believed there was just cause for whatever you have done. Be sure I will bear no hard feelings towards you. Sit down stay to dinner: I wish to say a great deal to you."

And now, dear Jenny, what is the cause of your tears?"

"Vexation, partly; partly joy; partly shame and rage that I ever spoke to such a puppy. A free-love match! Infamous blockhead, knave, monster of conceit!"

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Now tell your story calmly, my Jenny: you can do so if you will."

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Very well: I will! You know little Mary Tyng, who lives with her dear good old maiden aunt, who adopted her when she became an orphan. Dear little creature. When she heard it buzzed about that Eliza was getting her wedding dresses, up she come, in a hot sunshine; in she rushed; we were all in the midst of business; up she rushed to Eliza, and drew her away and what do you imagine she told her? Why just this last Augustmark, August, the early part —

The extreme mortification of Miss Williams increased, but her grief, if she felt any, much diminished, by an exhibit, under injunction of secrecy, of an account of confidential loans amounting to about ninety thousand dollars. It was the opin ion of this court that the commercial, stockjobbing and matrimonial schemes of this progressive individual had been mainly supported by the prodigal weakness of Croesus. On this basis he had managed to establish a general belief that he was to marry the daughter of a merchant of immense wealth; and when this failed he had played the same game with another lady, and nearly succeeded. The decision of the court was reserved.

Reader, allow us to introduce Mr. John Bowman. He is on the books of Mr. Croesus to the amount of about nine hundred dollars, in divers sums, all of which has been paid. The junior partner, from previous acquaintance, and the books, concludes that he may be trusted. She is now proposing to him to give up his clerkship in an eminent law concern, and take an office for himself. He is obliged to her very deeply obliged for such interest and kindness: but thinks his ultimate success will be more sure if he remains the assistant of men of high reputation and ability until he becomes known,

by their liberal aid, to a reasonable number who may require his services. She rather pointedly inquires if they are very friendly to him; if they would remain friendly in case he should quit them: if they would aid him professionally, in difficult cases. He believes they would. Finally, she desires him to confer with them, to make sure of their good offices; and proposes to retain him as counsel in some cases out of the regular business of her

concern.

Next day Mr. Bowman returns, and joyfully announces that he has been invited not to quit the office, but to become a partner, and has accepted. He looks with peculiar interest at Jenny Smith, who is present, and blushes, and smiles. But business is business; and they go at it. Jenny fears that her friend Julia will become wrinkled prematurely, if she meddles with business, and compresses her lips so rigidly.

"Mr. Bowman: you will have the kindness to examine the accounts in this book; and inquire what may be expected from them; and institute such proceedings as you judge will be best to settle them. First of all, and with the least delay consistent with your convenience, you will attend to the account of Mr. Washington Swift in this case you will proceed with rigour. In other cases you will advise me when you think accommodation will be reasonable. You will understand that my husband, with great kindness, has sent me to inquire into the affairs of my father; and that I have found them in considerable peril; and, at my request, my husband has given me these claims, as my own, understanding that I intend to use them for my father's benefit. You will not be governed by my judgment; but I suggest that you may do well to consult with my father: perhaps he may be able to offset some of them. When you wish to see me on business, send word, and you will find me at home. When you can spare time to dine with us, or to make a social call, always come without special notice."

"Sweet is my revenge, especially to women." So sings Byron, as truly as

most poets sing.

Before Bowman got

through his task, he said one evening to his wife- from whom he kept no secrets of his own that he had feared that his life would be embittered by one regret, however well he might be married. That fear had vanished: he no longer regretted that he could not have Julia. While his admiration of her had of late greatly increased, he had become convinced that he should have feared her so much that his fear would have cast out love. With all her accomplishments, and power of pleasing, and inspiring love, and all her aversion to wrong, and love of right, she was utterly unmerciful. Without a shade of relenting, she had exacted the instant payment-with three or four exceptions, of an aggregate of half a million dollars, which spongers, some of them knavish, but most of them thoughtless, had borrowed from her husband, who, high-principled as he was, had never learned that it was his duty to preserve the wealth he had inherited. It was fortunate for Croesus that he had such a wife. He seemed to love her, in spite of qualities which seemed to me incompatible with love. He feared that she did not love him, or any human creature: but she was more able to inspire love than most women who are capable of returning it.

"You mistake Julia, at least in a great degree. It is gratifying to me to be assured that you do not regret that she is not yours; but I ought to correct your unjust estimate of her heart. I know many instances, which I never learned from her, of acts of generous affection, and generous forgiveness; and, although I had more of her confidence than any other, I never knew her to betray the confidence even of those who strove to cheat her into alliance with ignoble pretension. I never was told by her that she did not entertain thoughts in favor of the exploded balloon Swift; but were I as sure of a long and prosperous life as I am that she never for an instant thought. of marrying him, I should be perfectly content."

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So it may be: but it is hard for me to believe, after the service she has made me perform. But you have long been her bosom friend; and I ought to trust you

impressions rather than my own. This I believe that she is faithful, kind, and even affectionate, wherever she professes friendship, and her friendship is not abused; but if a despot were such as she, his subjects would tremble."

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"Dearest if she had been autocrat of this country for the last ten years, the present troubles could not have existed. If she had been your wife, she would not have felt it her duty to depart from her proper sphere; and you would not have known that she was capable of such inflexibility. She's what her duty requires and her faculties enable her to be; if her duty had allowed her to be more exclusively a woman, you would not have known her as you now know her. Others may be like her who seem totally different. Look among the poor women who have to protect themselves: do you not see in them enough to show that such elements are in all womankind, ready to burst out when there is occasion?"

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Yes; but in them the elements are without power: it is the union of power with unrelenting severity that, as I said, would make me fear such a wife, and that to such a degree that I could not love her I think one should love a wife." "Or as a woman should love a husband. We women know that fear is a great enemy of love. You are partly right if Julia had such a husband as the unprincipled pretender Swift, and she discovered his true character, there would be fire in the house she would certainly neglect no means of delivering herself from him. But you would have had nothing to fear you must love her warmly as a friend but I don't ask you to regret that you have me instead of her."

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"Well, dear; I believe that is the best way to arrange it: I will love my friend as a friend, and my wife as a wife, and thank God for both of them. Now you want me to tell you the end of all these complications in our social circle ?"

"Yes. My curiosity is always great; and it has been pent up for some time; and is decidedly prepared for all that you are at liberty to reveal."

"First: Mr. Dix has been released by his creditors, for sixty cents on the dollar.

He represented that if they would allow time, he could do better by them. Some of them were extremely rigorous, and even almost insulting, designing, probably, to get Croesus involved. But Julia, who would be present at the final meeting, in spite of my entreaties, made a speech that astonished them, and settled the whole business at once. She told them that she should not fail to do her duty as a daughter; that her husband had most liberally and kindly provided her with means, and urged upon her much more than she had accepted: but her duty was to him, and not to his creditors. He had been true to them: had never been more profuse in his expenses than they allowed to be reasona ble: his embarrassments were due to the common calamity, and his creditors ought to be content to take all he had. She was willing and prepared to pay the estimated value of his assets, if they would release him. They might judge whether, being released, he would ever voluntarily pay more, in case his hopes of collecting debts were realized. It was better that they should leave him active and unembarrassed, better for them as well as for him. But if they pressed severely, in expectation that she would sacrifice the interests of her father to avoid the stigma of a failure, they would be disappointed. What he had was theirs; what she had was his: and if they did not take either the goods and papers, or the value as estimated in the paper before them, they could not possibly contrive to get any of her money. The dissentients gave in; and very wisely; for every one of them feels confident that he will be paid in full as soon as Dix has means of his own to pay. Nearly four hundred thousand was paid out and a hundred thousand put in as new capital. Julia is special partner in the concern: and it is my opinion that she will make money, in spite of the times; for Mr. Dix is considered one of the best merchants."

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The creditors of the other dashing friends of Croesus have fared not much better. It

THE OAK OF

BY ADA H. THOMAS.

is a remarkable fact that every one who Who planted the acorn of freedom,
has made free with Billy Croesus is now
utterly collapsed."

"Ánd is Croesus cured of his folly ?"
"I am afraid not. He heard that I
had been asking the price of the house up
in our old neighborhood, and yesterday
he said to me :
"if you want money to
buy a house, just let a fellow know: I
think it may be a good time to buy." But
his partner will take care that the business
is well conducted. I have no longer any
apprehensions on his account."

"And what are all our friends to do for husbands ?"

"I am afraid they will have to marry men, or remain single until the country recovers its prosperity." I am glad Miss Williams has fallen in love with Mary Tyng, and taken her as a companion for life, since poor old Miss Tyng is dead, and she has become disgusted with the in

constant sex."

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"Then shall we go?"

"Yes. And we shall have a delightful time, of repose and recreation. I think I need it and so do you. How happy are. we to have such friends. Friends whose

welcome we confidentially believe in."

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And whom we need not fear, in any sense. John: before we return, you will have got entirely rid of that conceit."

"It does not amount to much: I shall not be obstinate in holding it. Shall we go next Saturday, or wait until the month begins?"

"Next Saturday, of course, if you can be ready."

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Deep down in the breast of the ages?
Who gave it the heat, and the moisture
That warmed it to life,-oh ye sages?
The frail, tiny shoot-who hath guarded

From frostings and snows of December,

From merciless heatings of summer,

And wild, chilling blasts of November?

Or when the red tongues of the lightnings

Flashed flame through the arches of heaven,

While men hid their eye balls in terror,

And all the proud forests were riven,

Whose arm stayed the wrath of the tempest,
And guarded the oak to its glory?
It fills me with wonder,-oh, savans,
Relate me the marvellous story!

Far back, in the beautiful ages,

When young were the hills, and the mountains,

When greener the mane of the ocean,

And sweeter the voices of fountains,

When winds from the islands elysian
Wrapped earth in entranced embraces,
And all of her valleys prolific

Were teeming with happier races;
One day, from the sun-lighted mountains,
A god took his way to the river,
That flashed through its reeds, like an arrow
Lost heedlessly out of its quiver.
The blue of his eyes he had shaded

With lids, like the mists of the morning;
And redder his cheeks than the vapors
Which burn with the signals of warning.

Ah! fairest of gods, as he threaded
The red-bordered banks of the river,
For love, all the blossoming grasses
Bent low, with a tremulous shiver.

All white, paled the lily for longing;

And blood-red the phlox changed in blushes: For love of his blue eyes, the reed buds

Blowed blue, as he walked through the rushes.

Thus listlessly wandering, an acorn,

Wave-sprinkled, fair-colored and teeming,
Swept up from the heart of the river,
And woke him straightway from his dream-
ing.

Right down, from the sides of Olympus,

The waters poured swift in the river:
The god grasped the seed of the forest,

And cried "Surely Jove is the giver!"

He scooped with his fingers a hollow,'
Where warmly the sun lay, when shadows
Stole down from the cloud-hooded mountains,
To darken the wide-spreading meadows.

He gathered soft loam from the forest, Dead leaves from the reeking morasses, Long, musical reeds from the river,

And feathery, blossoming grasses.

"Ah! sweeter than reeds it shall murmur;
Shall rival the strength of the river,
Exist when the mountains are fallen!
For Jove of Olympus is giver."

The lily paled whiter, despairing,
And died in a tremulous shiver;
The phloxes flushed redder with anger,-
The flags hid their shame in the river.

But straight from its cradle, the acorn,
Beloved of the fairest Immortal,
Shot up, till it vied with Olympus,

And gazed through the cloud-guarded portal.

Shone white, through the mists of the morning;
Glowed red, with the sunset of even;
When tempests swept down from the mountains,
Burned blue, as the pavement of Heaven!

The forests unnumbered departed,

The mountains grew wrinkled and hoary, The gods, in a happier region,

Exceeded their olden-time glory.

The clouds from Olympus had lifted,-
Wide open the long guarded portals;-
The river had dried, and in dust, lay
The oak of the happy Immortals.

The earth travailed on in her labor,

Grown aged, and worn, in her sorrow, Remembering the light of her morning, To dread the dark shades of her morrow.

One day, from her cloud-hidden mountains,
A man waudered down to the river,
That flashed through its reeds, like an arrow
Lost heedlessly out of its quiver.

And thoughtfully wandeding, an acorn,

Wave-sprinkled, fair-colored and teeming, Swept up from the heart of the river, And woke him straightway, from his dream

Right down from the misty Hereafter,

The waters rushed swift in the river,The man grasped the seedling of freedom, And cried, "Surely God is the giver!"

He scooped with his fingers, a hollow,
Where warmly the sun lay, when shadows
Strode down from the mountains of horror,
To darken the wide-spreading meadows.

He gathered the souls of the freemen,

Far whiter than mists of the morning; He poured out their blood in a fountain, That faded the signals of warning.

Blue eyes gave their light, at his bidding,
To guide its dark way through the shadows;
Blue lips breathed their prayers unceasing,
Blue hands tailed on hill sides and meadows.

And straight from its cradle, the acorn Shot up, but the earth had grown older; Less full of the life of her pristine

The blood in her arteries colder.

Seven years did the summers and winters Keep march-till the oak in its glory, Grown strong with the moisture of freemen, Out-rivalled the heathenish story,

Shone white, through the mists of the morning,
Glowed red, with the sunset of even;
When tempests swept down from the mountains,
Burned blue, as the pavement of Heaven.

Thus planted-the acorn of freedom!
Thus painted the hues of our Nation!
God-given, God-nurtured,-Jehovah
Insures its eternal salvation.
Summit, Wisconsin, Aug. 1862.

BROKEN CHAINS.

BY MINNIE 8. DAVIS.

The mistress of a beautiful Southern mansion lay sleeping in her chamber. The thick curtains caused a sort of twilight there, and the faint fragrance of fair flowers filling the alabaster vases on the marble stands, made the air strangely oppres sive.

The furniture of the lofty apartment was all in order, and every little article of daily use was put out of sight.

Madam Hayward lay upon her snowy couch in motionless repose, and at the foot of the bed knelt a young maiden whose face was hidden in her hands. Alas, too deep, too still was the lady's slumber! It was the last, long sleep of death. They had robed her for the tomb, with loving, reverend touch and flooding tears. Lina had directed all things; her taste and judgment even the haughty daughter, Mrs. Col. Gordon, did not dispute, and all had pronounced her work well done. Lastly, she had laid an exquisite white japonica with myrtle leaves upon the dear sleeper's breast, and there was nothing more for love to do.

Then all her suppressed anguish arose like a mighty torrent and overwhelmed her heart. She fell upon her knees and the sound of her bitter sobbing smote the air. Utterly desolate and bereaved was the little maiden. Her beloved mistress and friend, her foster mother, was no more. And Oh, the cruel parting was not Who would befriend her now? who

all!

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