and myself. Our husbands had taught us to be- and early prepared him for the possibility of its lieve in the injustice of the charge, and our own withdrawal. Influenced by that spirit of truth, hearts prompted to the expectation of something which had ever governed him, young Burton wrote of more than ordinary interest to be found under down a clear and succinct account of the debts he the mystery, which had thrown its shadow around had paid, the obligations he had discharged, and the mother and son. We sought out the old lady, the slight stipend that was left from their once and without difficulty discovered her lowly abode. magnificent possessions. This he enclosed in a Their history is told in a few words. letter to his inother, requesting her views for his future conduct, offering to pursue any course she deemed most congenial to his character, and concluding with the touching exclamation of the young hero of France-" Mother, we have lost all but our honor."

Mrs. Burton was of an old and once wealthy family in Maryland she had passed through many changes of fortune, and her health was declining rapidly when we saw her. Her husband had been a man of noble feelings, liberal sentiments, and careless habits. Born to affluence, he had married a girl Never had Mrs. Burton felt so proud of her wholly destitute of fortune, yet gifted with all that son, as at this moment; and she assured me, with elevates and beautifies the character of woman. tears in her eyes, that, in that hour, when many Full of warm impulses, Mr. Burton had given his might have felt humbled, and prayed for future name and his purse to the necessities of so many benefactions, she had thrown herself upon her knees, of his friends, that his known benevolence and easy overcome with gratitude and love, to thank God faith had exposed him to many losses and bitter for having given her such a son for now she redisappointments. They had but one child, a boy alized the inestimable treasures of his heart, and of more than ordinary ability, the idol of both pa- felt that her teachings had not been in vain. rents, but the pride of his father's heart. No ex- Their conduct was guided, by various motives, pense was spared upon his education. Cherished to one result. James had talents of a high order, by love, cradled in luxury, growing up amid splen- but he had no profession. He wished to study dor and extravagance, perhaps the moral charac-medicine, and his mother approved the plan; but ter of James Burton owed much of its stirling it was a slow process, and their means were too worth to his mother's vigilance, and her own high much circumscribed, to admit of much delay in principles; certain it is, that few young minds the incomings of his labor. So they resolved to could have passed so purely through the glittering leave their native city, (where any change in their ordeal of worldly temptation, as his did. For, when conduct would be animadverted on, and every act having completed his academic course, he was call-of economy subjected to comment, or commiseraed home from foreign travel, by the sudden death tion,) and emigrate to the West. This, they acof his father, it was beautiful and most touching cordingly did. James studied medicine, and atto behold the firmness and readiness with which he tended the lectures a part of every day; but the devoted his young energies to the perplexing cares greater portion of his time was devoted to writing of business, and the disentanglement of his father's for the newspapers, periodicals, and reviews, such complicated affairs. Alas! for the young heart | articles, as enabled him, by their sale, to support situated as his was at this trying period! Cheer- his mother and himself, in the humble manner in ing and sustaining the drooping spirits of his moth- which we found them living. Mrs. Burton lodged er, with steady affection and unremitting tender- with her son in the retired rooms, where he had so ness, James was gradually awakening to the con- closely confined himself, as to attract the attention viction, (as day after day unfolded new discoveries of the idle in our village, and originate suspicion in in the father's business,) that wealth was departing the minds of the curious. Ill health had confined from their threshold, until, having liquidated all the her to one apartment, and often to her couch for claims upon his father's estate, the startling fact days together, but the devotion of her son prestared him in the face, that they were poor. For vented her missing other society. The trial had himself, he scarcely felt the change: he was young, had a very powerful effect upon her system, and ambitious, full of hope, and the proud desire to when Emma and myself first called upon her, we make for himself a glory and a name, pleased and saw that her days were numbered. James was rather excited his imagination. But his mother! ever by her side, doing all that love could suggest, she whose consumptive tendency had been watched to soothe her progress to the grave. It was in so fondly, guarded so religiously, how would she be vain, that Mrs. Delcour and myself urged her to enabled to meet the blow, and give up the blessings remove to the home of one of us; she persisted which wealth had lavished in every shape around in the reply, that "James felt such pride in susher head? For a while he almost dreaded to re-taining her, that she would die under his roof;" and veal to her the facts, but memory came to his relief, hence it was, that we passed so many hours in the and whispered of the lessons of his boyhood, when quiet room of the medical student. Here it was, that gentle mother had taught him, that wealth was that, while aiding him in his task of affection, we in itself an accident, often a trial, or at least a loan; first learned to estimate the virtues of his heart,

I have just wept, dearest Ellen, at the recollection of these moments of exquisite enjoyment, but fatal results; for to them must I ever ascribe poor Emma's first impressions of an excellence she had never dreamed of before.

and while we listened to his eloquent descriptions | words it must employ, to convey to you my imof the scenes he had visited, would mark his mo- pressions of events now long past. I will run ther's pleased expression, as she led his thoughts lightly over the first six months which succeeded to loftier subjects, and gather up the gems, that fell the death of Mrs. Burton, when her son secluded from his richly stored mind, to lock them away in himself from society, and devoted his time to the the casket of our memories. study of his profession. His first visits were, of course, to Mrs. Delcour and myself; and were generally made of a morning, to avoid company; and we passed many hours in this familiar intercourse every week. I believe, at this time, he felt an equal attachment for us both, and regarded The fascinations of mind over the female heart, us with the affection of a brother. The absent are, I think, scarcely enough considered by those was always a theme of praise to the one who was who speculate on the origin of love, but united present; and it was sometime before Emma's pewith a high order of manly beauty, and a graceful, culiar loneliness of situation seemed to offer greater but dignified deportment, as in this instance, they claims to his idle hours, than my noisy children, became more than attractive. To me, James Bur-and very conversable husband held forth. Someton soon became as a young brother; I loved him times he would be surprised to find, that Emma fondly and truly, as if I had known him all my life; had been weeping;-occasionally he entered the I made him the frequent theme of my discourse room while she was at the piano; but generally with my husband, and pointed out wherein I thought when he called, she was engaged in her dangerous his influence could benefit our young friend. But occupation of writing verses; but her effusions to Emma, ah, how different was the effect of these were hastily put away, or destroyed, as soon as unconstrained hours! Her heart had no higher she perceived him. One day she had been scribexcellence, with which to compare the young en-bling upon the fly leaf of a new novel, and in apthusiast; there was none to whom she could say, parent unconsciousness of the action, flung the "You might improve—you might lead him ;" and book upon the sofa as he came in; after a while, unconsciously to herself, he became the dream of she was called out of the room, when he took up her young heart's meditations. The position he the volume, and read these lines : filled in society-the relation he stood in to Mrs. Burton-the beauties of his splendid intellect, and the constant observation of his noble character, all conspired to keep him in her thoughts, and his influence stole imperceptibly into a heart, which had long felt "the aching void" caused by unoccupied and unappreciated affection. Those gushings forth of a deep tenderness, which she had hitherto felt were "borne back" upon herself, had now an object around which to pour their golden floods of light. Alas! she little knew the danger of associating thus with such a being.

Mrs. Burton lingered on till Spring, and died just after hearing, that the real murderer, for whose

"There is a love which liveth,

From passion's dross apart;
And many an hour it giveth,

Of gladness to the heart.

"There is a dream that cometh,

At morn-at noon-at even;
And mid its wild flowers bloometh,
One bud of hope and heaven.

"That love-that hope-that dream,
Still glow my heart within;
Radiant as Fancy's gleam,

But ever free from sin."

There was nothing in these lines to win a seccrime her son had been tried, had confessed his ond thought, but the last idea; and as Burton hasguilt, before expiating other offences upon the gal-tily transcribed them on the back of a letter, he lows. Emma and myself mourned deeply with thought, who could dare suspect thee of sin, sweet young Burton the loss of a mother, whom we had learned to love for her many virtues and pure piety. She died in the arms of her son, whose devotion was unremitted to the last.

Emma, but thine own pure heart? Then came the doubt!—and does that accuse thee, lovely one? Alas! alas! and for whom? and without awaiting her return to the parlor, he left the house.

Pause with me now, dear Ellen, and reflect for That evening we were to meet, by previous apa moment upon the character of James Burton. pointment, at the theatre. Emma and myself ocSo full of all that could win esteem; so peerless cupied the front seats; Mr Delcour had declined as a son; so gentle as a friend; so dignified as a accompanying us, so Burton and my own Sposo man! and surely, if for a little while he faltered were our only cavaliers, and sat immediately back on the path of right, you will join me in believing, of us. The Play was the Merchant of Venice, that the expiation of his after sufferings will obliterate the single blot upon his life's fair page.

which Mr. Delcour said he had "seen so often, that he knew it by heart," as if any heart could I am approaching a painful portion of my nar- weary of seeing, or reading, that splendid effort of rative, and my pen lingers, reluctant to trace the genius! Poor Emma often felt how uncongenial

were their tastes, how little sympathy existed in
their feelings, even upon such trifles as the wit-
nessing a Play. Well, I remember we liked
the acting very much. Mrs. Drake, as Portia,
rivetted all eyes upon her graceful movements,
while her inimitable reading, won thunders of ap-
plause. I forget who played Bassanio, but he was
a spirited young actor, and did full justice to the
part. In the scene where he chooses the casket,
expectation filled every heart, till a general sigh
of pleasure burst from the audience at his success.
As I always do when touched by emotion of any
kind, I turned towards my husband, expecting to
meet the answering glance of intelligence and affec-
tion, that ever beams upon me at such moments. In
turning my head, I was struck by the sudden, im-
pulsive, lightning-flash, that shot from Emma's
radiant eye. She had felt the same powerful emo-
tion, that thrilled my own heart; but she had,
instinctively and unthinkingly, sought sympathy in
the eyes of James Burton! It had been but a mo-
mentary forgetfulness; the long fringed lid droop-
ed over the too truthful orb, but its revelations had
been made; spirit had called unto spirit, soul had
communed with soul, and the heart's history was
told in that single glance. From this moment,
Burton fully understood the lines he had pilfered
in his morning's visit; but from this moment also,
he resolved to adopt a course of conduct, too guard-
ed to compromise himself, and too honorable to
awake even a suspicion, in the bosom of Emma,
of the gratitude and devotion that sprung up in his
own heart, with the conviction of her regard.
He sought opportunities of seeing her only in
society; for now he knew, from his own emotions,
what hers must be. I, on the contrary, took every
means of being alone with her; for I hoped a mo-
ment might occur, when I could put her on her
guard against the insidious tempter, which she
seemed not to imagine was near. Calmly, steadily,
did she perform all her duties as a wife; not one
attention, not one politeness was omitted; and
perfectly satisfied was Mr. Delcour with her gen-
tleness and dignified deportment. The idea that
there might exist stronger, warmer feelings be-
neath this graceful drapery of manner, never cross-
ed his mind; incapable of very deep emotions him-
self, he never dreamed, that where no manifesta-
tions were visible, strong passions might still be

found.

"I know that brow, so calm and fair,
Is dark and troubled now!
I dread that deep, depressing care,
Thy noble form may bow;
And fear that, in thy graceful mien,
Traces of suffering may be seen!

"Has Grief within those eyes appeared,
Their tender light to dim?

And that low voice, to me endeared

By Fancy's wildest whim;
Has Sadness there its magic thrown,
To deepen its heart-winning tone?

"Oh! that the power were mine, to fling
A charm thy spirit o'er;
To bid it, like affection, cling,-

Or, proudly upward soar,
Like Hope, ascending to the skies,
To find the peace which earth denies!
"But reckless that I am, to throw
On Feeling's changing tide
Emotions which but few can know,
Though many may deride;
And let my heart thus overflow,
With anguish for another's wo!"

"These lines are quite touching, Emma," I said, "to whom were they addressed?" There was a slight hesitation, then the clear, simple, truthful reply.

"They were written several months ago, Rose, and refer to James Burton; but I thought I had destroyed them, let me do so now!"

No, dearest Emma, not until you read that third stanza over, and tell me if the sentiment it conveys, is not an odd one for a married woman to She blushed scarlet, but replied, with express." calm earnestness

"The human heart, Rose, has often been called a mystery, and truly may I say of mine, that it is incomprehensible. I respect my husband as highly as ever I did; I endeavor to fulfil all my duties faithfully; and yet, there are times, dear Rose, when I feel most wretched, when my heart I have cries out, 'give, give,' but receives not. always, to a great extent, felt thus; but latterly, more than ever. I feel as if no one cares for me; I am convinced that no one values me; I afford no happiness to others, and in vain do I seek it for myself. Burton used to come every day and sit with me, and I fancied that he, at least, found pleasure in my society; but now, even he slights me."

Her voice faltered as she said this, and the large tears rolled slowly over her cheeks. I would have One morning, as Emma was turning over the spoken and pointed out the peril of her position, contents of her work-box, a paper fell out upon but my heart sorrowed for her as for a sister, and which she had been scribbling in her usual careless ere I could find words to express myself with way; I opened it, and perceived the date to be im-sufficient delicacy, the door opened, and James mediately subsequent to the death of Mrs. Burton, Burton entered the room. There was a moment's but the lines were without address, and were evi- embarrassment to us all. He said he had been to dently the pencilled thoughts of the moment that call upon me, and followed to Mr. Delcour's. Emconceived them. ma started up, and tried to conceal her tears by

crossing the room, while I became silent and nervous. I saw Burton take up a music-book, and absently turn its pages, then become deathly pale, and lay it back quietly upon the stand.

But I have forgotten to tell you there had been a concert the evening before, which we had attended. Mr. Delcour had, as usual, delegated to Burton the charge of his wife, while he stayed at home with his books. Oh, how little do those husbands understand a woman's heart, who voluntarily relinquish to another, the duty, the privilege, of protecting, of entertaining, and of offering those little kindnesses which courtesy demands, and affection expects! And he, who can thus carelessly pass his wife over to the attentions of another, has much to answer for, if she learns to prize the friend more dearly than the husband. During the evening of the concert, Emma and Burton had conversed but little, though the language of the eyes had left me not much to learn from the confession of the morning. Still, when I too had an opportunity of examining the musicbook, I was somewhat startled to find these words. Poor Emma! she ever thought in rhyme!

"TO J. B.

"It does not need that I should hear,
That thrilling voice in accents sweet,
My conscious heart to tell thou'rt near,
And bid each pulse with rapture beat.

"It does not need thine eyes should pour, Their kindling radiance into mine,

To bid my spirit kneel, adore,

And worship, at thy gifted shrine."

Like trusting youth's first dream,
That leaves the heart so lone !

"Though fairer forms may win thee,
In pleasure's haunts to rove,
Lighting the ray within thee,

With beams of earth-born love;
Though Beauty's self should lure thee,
To play the worldling's part,
Let Friendship hover o'er thee,
An ægis to thy heart.

"Let her light touch awaken

Reflection's sacred power,
The chord, not rudely shaken,

Will, in thy darkest hour,
Make music which shall lift
Thy soul earth's cares above,
And leave it still the gift,
The boon of Heavenly Love,-
"Which, bending from the sky,

Calls wandering spirits back,
With feelings pure and high,

To tread that starry track.
Then, wake, young Dreamer, wake!
That lofty flight pursue ;-
All-all is on the stake,
Or-misery in view."

These stanzas, signed "Rose," I sent to Barton's office. In the evening, he came to see me; we were alone, and he immediately touched upon the subject.

"Your hint came too late. I had written to Emma ere I knew you understood my unhappy position. Do not blame me too severely, dear Rose; I know that I am doing wrong, but she is so wretched, what else can I do?"

It was impossible to read these lines, and not "Be calm, James!" I replied, taking his hand understand the misery of the young heart, whose affectionately. "Be yourself, James Burton, and feelings they betrayed. I saw that Burton had think well what you are about. I am Emma's done so, for he soon took leave of us and departed. friend, as well as yours; I must save you both, if I A thought occurred to me; I saw the power of can. Tell me, therefore, all that has passed, frankpoetry upon him, and resolved to use its influence ly, as to a sister." Let me here, dear Ellen, enclose the corresto destroy, what it had, perhaps, assisted to create. I, therefore, shortened my own visit to Emma, and pondence which has since come into my possessaid as I left her, "How comes on your Religious sion; it will best explain this portion of my narrainvestigation, my dear Emma? Pray do not give

it up, for believe me there are trials in life, which can only be sustained by its strengthening influences-sufferings, which can only be soothed by its divine power."

I felt that she understood me, and I left her. You know, Ellen, that I too write rhymes after a fashion. So thinking for a few minutes after my return home what I should say, I traced the following warning words :

"TO JAMES BURTON. "Though brighter eyes should woo thee, With hopes that may beguile The grief that's clinging to thee, And bid those sad lips smile, With Mirth's delusive beam, Which glanceth and is gone,

tive.

From James to Emma.

Emma, dear Emma, how shall I write to you the words which I can no longer withhold? That I love you fondly, wildly, madly love you, Emma: that I have dared to enter the house of one who has been to me a friend, a benefactor, and stolen from it his brightest treasure! Am I indeed so fallen? Alas! alas! may I not palliate in your eyes, at least, the enormity of the offence? I never dreamed of this result, when I saw you solitary and neglected, spending your time in listlessness, and often giving way to sadness, I sought to amuse you by my visits. And I tried to occupy you in my absence, as much for the gratitude that I owed your husband, as from an admiration of your own

Its beacon-star has ceased to shine,
Its anchor, Hope, is lost!

And wild it drifts, all wrecked and lone,
Seeking a haven of its own."

character. When I filled your vases with flowers, your music-stand with new compositions, and your centre-table with engravings, magazines and poetry, believe me, it was with no higher ambition than to afford you a moment's pastime. And not Should not these lines have warned me of the until I learned, from the expressive index of your perilous position in which I was placed, Emma; eyes, that you contrasted those humble attentions, for did not their incoherency betray to me your arising from my undisguised desire to give you unhappiness? Alas! they did but convince me pleasure, with the absence of them in Mr. Del- that I was dear to you, and trusting in my own cour, did I feel the dangerous tendency, which even strength of principle, I would not deny myself such trifles might possess. When my pencil, gui- the delight of your society. Need I say that ded by my own ideas of the beautiful, marked the each hour of our intercourse served but to kindle passages of the books we read, I never thought of more fiercely the flame that consumed my heart? the effect they might produce in noting the conge- while my sense of honor, and the purity that dwelt niality and sympathy between your feelings and in your own artlessness, proved my bitter penalty my own. But with this discovery, commences my for the wrong I was perpetrating. But now, Emma, offence, Emma. Can you pardon it? For I should the veil has been torn away from the altar, and the have left you in your home of innocence and peace, Deity is revealed to our eyes: we both know that and buried my sorrows and my madness in my own we have erred; for we have loved, and love unheart. But that heart was formed for tenderness, wisely still. You are not one to feel that you are and I vainly hoped, that as a friend and brother, I wronging a husband's confidence, and to continue might administer to your happiness, concealing and under his roof. Alas! there is but one alternative : subduing a stronger sentiment in myself. I thought will you fly with me, Emma, to another land? I I had almost succeeded, when, one day last summer, can offer nothing to tempt you, dearest, but my I sought you with a fragrant offering of the flow-love; but wherever we go, all that love can do ers you love so much. You were absent when I to soothe, to compensate and to bless, that, Emma, called, but there was a book, which I had given you that will I do for you while I live. The truth-the the day before, upon the table. I took it up, and choice is before you. I await your decision in a a paper fell from its leaves, on which my name had state of excitement I cannot describe; but I will been traced by you in several places. I seized it not, I dare not attempt to bias you: you know me, as a precious memorial; but not until I reached] Emma, but you do not, cannot know how deeply I my own room, did I discover these words, written love you. by your own dear hand, Emma, and addressed JAMES BURTON.

TO JB—.

"Oh! could I in that heart create,
An interest all my own,

I'd envy not the rich-the great-
The monarch on his throne,
Nor yield my empire of an hour,
For countless wealth, or boundless power.

"Oh! could I win from those dear eyes,
One glance that might reveal
Emotions 'neath their dark disguise,

Such as I still must feel;

Nor earth, nor heaven hath aught to me,
So dear as that one glance would be!

"And, oh! that voice of tenderness,

Whose melody still rolls,
O'er memory's ear, to soothe and bless,
And loneliness consoles ;
Oh! could it speak one word, to tell
Of love like mine the power and spell.

"Nor gloom, nor grief again should throw
Their shade my pathway o'er,
Nor withered hopes upon my brow
Leave records to endure;
For in Love's phoenix flame I'd cast
All memory of the bitter past.

"Sure never yet was heart like mine,
'Midst such wild tempests tost!

From Emma to James.

Your letter has reached me !-and while I feel bound to pardon its having been written, I am deeply humbled, that in me you have seen sufficient weakness to warrant so unusual an event. I cannot say that I regret your having thus brought to a conclusion, a train of circumstances which was fast tending to a result of a painful nature; and I am grateful to you for having sent your letter at the moment that you did. For know, that it reached me at the very instant when I had risen from the most fervent prayer my lips had ever addressed to the Deity. A few parting words from Rose had sent me to my chamber startled, contrite and agonized. The scales had fallen from my eyes, and I beheld myself upon the brink of a fearful precipice. Oh! the bitterness of that moment's revelations ! But calmly and without emotion have I resolved to write to you: the conflicts of a heart like mine, are not for mortal eye to look upon. No one shall know the effect of wounded pride upon my spiritthe abasement-the torture I have endured. Let your own heart whisper what mine has felt: my conduct will prove to you of what strength I still