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THE WARNING.

A TALE OF TRUTH.

"There's strength deep bedded in our hearts, of which
We reck but little, till the shaft has pierc'd
Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent
Before her gems are found?”

-

"WHAT an interesting young gentleman Mr. Merrill is," exclaimed Sophia to her sisters, as they sat at their morning work. "I thought him perfectly fascinating last night; so polite-such a graceful bow-knows how to pay a compliment so pleasantly."

"I did not see any thing very agreeable in him," replied Martha, as she looked up extremely surprised to hear her sister express herself so warmly in Mr. Merrill's favor. "He surely knows how to dance well, and that is his principal recommendation."

"O sister, you forget his person, his manners, and his generous spirit, always ready at any expense to entertain his friends. See the difference between his conduct and that of your favorite, Marshman; who stays day after day behind the counter, to hoard up wealth which none can enjoy."

"Sophia, do not speak so harshly of my favorite, as you please to term him. Perhaps you are not aware that his economical habits are the result of necessity, as well as of principle; and that instead of hoarding wealth, his money is used for the support of a widowed and infirm mother, who is entirely dependent on his exertions. You will never hear of him, I think, as a defaulter, or as using the funds intrusted to him in midnight revelries."

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her married life had been one of desolation. Never had the name of their father been called by their mother. The eldest had an indistinct remembrance of a painful interview between her parents, which terminated soon in their separation. The younger ones knew not a father's love. His eye had beamed on them only in their infantile years; and when they witnessed the endearments of the domestic fire-side, where the prayers of the sire called down blessings on his offspring, they often wept that they were never to realize a father's tenderness. Delicacy forbade their asking Mrs. Wilmot any questions. Relatives mentioned him not; and they grew up to womanhood with this knowledge alone, that their father had forsaken his family, and thrown them on the world destitute.

A painful silence reigned through the little parlor from which Mrs. Wilmot had retired. Each seemed occupied with her own thoughts. Mary was weeping, and her tears had fallen unnoticed on her slate, obscuring a composition on which she had bestowed much labor.

"I do wish, sister Sophia, that Mr. Merrill had not popped into your head this morning; for my whole composition is spoiled, my ideas are so scattered that I cannot re-arrange them, and worse than all, mamma has been enveloped in gloom, by a few idle remarks.” "Mamma is too anxious about us, I think," replied Sophia.

At this moment a brother of Mrs. Wilmot entered the apartment. He noticed the gloom which had deprived his nieces of their usual hilarity, and his eye rested inquiringly on Sophia.

"Uncle, dear uncle," said his niece, "you see us all sober. Some casual remarks have called to mamma's remembrance scenes that are past, over which memory weeps. Do tell us something of my father's history, and then let the vail of oblivion be drawn over his fol

'Sophia is sadly deceived," whispered a young sister of fourteen, to her mother. "Our school girls speak of Mr. Merrill's character as suspicious. His employers, it is said, are becoming very uneasy. They can-lies and his faults." not place the confidence in him which they have formerly done."

Sophia's quick ear had heard the remark, and the reddening cheek betrayed that the gentleman was of more than ordinary interest to her. "It is envy, mere envy, that leads any one to speak ill of Mr. Merrill," said she, in a tone of vexation.

"I have felt for sometime," remarked Mr. Converse, "that you ought to know something respecting him, that you might better appreciate your mother's situation, to enable you, if need should be, to imitate her firmness; and like her, acquire that strength of mind which, by the blessing of a kind Providence, has borne her above the waves of affliction, which almost over

Mrs. Wilmot had listened anxiously to the conversa-whelmed her. It is but a little more than twenty tion between her daughters, and a deep shade of sorrow years since your grandfather died, and left your mother passed over her features, as she looked on her father- heiress to a handsome property. By his will, his unless children, just emerging into womanhood; so fair, married daughters could not come into possession of so unacquainted with the world, and she shuddered at their share until their marriage day, and this circumthe thought that they should ever be the victims of mis-stance may have induced them to marry rather premaplaced affection. She longed for ever to screen them turely. Many were the suitors who knelt at the shrine with a mother's love, from all the vicissitudes of life. of youth, beauty, and wealth. Your mother is now "Heaven preserve my daughters from the cup of sor- but the faded semblance of what she was at eighteen. row of which I have so deeply drunk!" she involun- Her heart was buoyant with hope, her figure possessed tarily exclaimed, as she retired from her daughters, and a fairy lightness, and scarcely ever did I see a cheek sought her chamber to give vent to her overcharged which glowed so beautifully with the hue of health. heart.

Her daughters knew that a cloud of adversity had overshadowed their mother's path. They knew that

Ann had just returned from Litchfield, where she had spent sometime under the care of Miss P. Admirers were numerous; and many there were whose

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plain manners and farmer-like address gained them a|| siness was becoming more and more protracted. Innoprompt refusal. I see them now in affluent circum-cence suspects no evil, and her mind was always ready stances, blessed with all that a bounteous heaven can to form a favorable excuse for Edward's delay. Occubestow. They are men of influence and weight in pied with family cares, the lateness of the hour would society. O how those girls mistake who refuse a man often surprise her. because he does not make an elegant appearance, when he possesses all the qualities needful to constitute a good husband."

"Sophia," whispered Mary, "do you hear what uncle says? Don't marry a man because he is genteel, I beg of you."

"It was at this time,” continued Mr. Converse, "that I met your father, Edward Wilmot, at W—, where he was established in the mercantile business. He was peculiarly fascinating in his personal appearance-a general favorite with all classes, and possessed a fund of wit and humor I scarce ever saw equaled. His exterior was imposing, and his features finely formed, without possessing that effeminacy which often attaches itself to a handsome man. It is not strange that the inexperienced heart of Ann Converse was captivated. I well recollect the hushed silence that reigned in the church in M, as the young couple stood before the altar, and the venerable Mr. R— performed the nuptial ceremony. Beautiful! beautiful! was the exclamation of many, as with intense interest, and throbbing heart, I gazed on them.

Ann was but a year my junior, and I was proud of such a sister. She looked with such a trusting confidence on him who was soon to be nearer than father, mother, brother or sister, I mentally said, Can he ever betray the confidence of that trusting girl, and plant a thorn in her bosom?

"The blessing fell tremulously from the lips of that aged minister-their hands were joined the ceremony was over-and as I turned from the altar, I noticed a look, almost like severity, that sat sternly on the features of some of my father's friends. Perhaps they were unconscious of such an expression of feeling; but as it was, it seemed to me an omen of ill.

"One evening she was waiting, as usual, the return of her husband; the candle had twice burned to its socket; she had read and sewed by turns to while away the time, and again took up the daily paper. Her husband's name arrested her eye. Can you imagine her surprise, when she found her best furniture was to be sold at auction the following day? She could hardly believe her eyes. Again she read, and found it was an exact catalogue of her parlor furniture. Absorbed in painful reflections, she heeded not the entrance of her husband until he stood at her side. The paper lay on the stand before her, her finger still pointing to the advertisement, as though to ascertain if she were indeed correct.

"Mr. Wilmot, with an assumed air of cheerfulness, exclaimed, 'What are you prosing over, Ann?' "His voice roused her. What does that mean?" she replied, her eye directing his to the paper.

"O it is that hateful paper that distresses you, Ann. I have been unfortunate-I am embarrassed, and rather than call on friends, I thought it best to part with articles that were not indispensably necessary to our comfort.'

"Your mother's devotion to her husband was such, that it was enough to know that he had been unfortunate, and that such a sacrifice was necessary.

"It is trying,' was her reply, but I will meet it patiently.'

"The husband looked grateful, and with consummate art he directed her attention to the nestling babe in the cradle. The mother's tenderness was awakened, and as the infant pillowed its head on her bosom, the auction was forgotten; the smiles of the little one, beaming with love for its mother, helped to dispell the gloom. Edward kissed his gentle wife, and confidence restored, she shed around her a fascinating influence.

"The life of Ann Converse had been one of unmin- "The auction came, and furniture that was simple gled gladness, until the death of her father; and now was substituted in the place of the elegant articles that her joyous spirit basked in the sunshine of happiness. had been removed. There was no lack of attention to The rainbow of hope arched her sky, and she wished Mrs. Wilmot, that could have induced her to think that not to have her dream of domestic joy dispelled as illu- her husband was irregular in his habits, except his prosory. Mr. Wilmot removed his bride immediately tolonged absences. Time wore on, and a little group his residence in W. The first year of their mar- were gathering around them; and with the cares of a famried life was unmarked by any incident of unusual oc-ily Ann had less time to devote to anxious forebodings. currence. At its expiration, Mr. Wilmot concluded to|| But a damp was thrown over her spirit when the long move to a village about twelve miles from Ann's maternal residence. In that place, her property was expended in building and furnishing a splendid house. Her domestic management was characterized by neat-dispirited his wife. Rumors were current of inattenness, economy, and order. There was much that was attractive in the household arrangements of Mrs. Wilmot. There was always a cheerful smile, and a well arranged table, to meet Mr. Wilmot, when the duties of the day were over; but habits long formed, will hardly be subdued, unless by firm principle. Mrs. Wilmot noticed that the absence of her husband at his bu

winter evenings came, and went, and the erring one was rarely by his own fireside. When questioned as to the reason, the irritation which he betrayed grieved and

tion to business; but she heard them not. The crisis at last approached: merchants in New York became impatient for their dues-his notes returned protested, and Mr. Wilmot was obliged to close his business. The mansion in which he lived was your mother's property, but it was sacrificed with the rest. She loved her husband not the less for being unfortunate, and

THE WARNING.

strove with unwearied assiduity to impel him to renewed exertion; but ah! there was a fatal secret that she did not understand-a poison in the cup of her domestic bliss.

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were the silver and other valuable articles taken from the house, and deposited with the pawn-broker. Articles of dress were staked at the table. Large sums of money were often taken from the house, but never returned. Your mother found it impossible to contend with such accumulated difficulties. She arranged her affairs, and with five children-the eldest perhaps 11returned to the home which she, a happy bride, had left twelve years before. She was but 30 years of agestill lovely-but sorrow had withered the rose on her cheek; and had it not been that her mind was nerved with more than ordinary strength, she would have sunk into an untimely grave. The affections of her heart had been seared and withered, her family thrown dependent on the charity of friends, and he who was pledged to cherish and protect through weal and woe, had fallen from his station in society and become an outcast.

"The young couple had many friends, and Edward was soon re-established in business. But he was unfortunate-again they came to his aid. It was whispered that he played deeply.' Ann had borne their adversities without a murmur. She would not add to his trials by imputing his ill success to mismanagement, though there was something in his air which told that all was not right. He did not exhibit the same tenderness for his prattling babes-he rarely took them on his knee; and when their fond mother placed them in his arms as in other days, there seemed no music in the laugh of infancy, to awaken a father's sympathy. Mrs. Wilmot accidentally found several packs of cards, and these unfolded the page of her husband's misfortunes. She could now account for his nightly absences. She could realize the cause of that infatuation, which had desolated their fireside, and had made their once happy home a wilderness. The discovery was a death-blow-in an unfailing Source of consolation; and when the the funeral knell of hope and happiness. She wrapped rebellious tear would fall, the murmuring word would the fatal cards in an envelope, on which she wrote her die on her lips, and she would meekly say, 'The cup name, and laid them in his secretary. Edward knew that my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?' by the drooping spirits of his wife, that his character When she looked on her children, she felt the necessity was exposed, and that she had learned that he was a of exertion. Much devolved on her, and she acted gamester. The barrier was removed, and from this with corresponding energy, devoting herself entirely to time he plunged deeply into dissipation. He became their education. entirely absorbed in his midnight revelries.

"Mrs. Wilmot felt, Never was there sorrow like unto my sorrow.' Although she drooped, she fainted not. She had learned during her afflictions, to put her trust

"For several years I had spent my time in NH, my delicate health unfitting me for attention to business. I resolved immediately to come and reside with my sister, and aid her in her task of educating her fatherless babes; for so they soon were. But a few months fled ere intelligence was conveyed to us of the death of Mr. Wilmot. We mourned-but we mourned not as those without hope. A ray of light gleamed over the dying pillow, and He who forgave the thief on the cross, spoke peace to the departing spirit of your father. Yet we mourned that nature's noble architecture should have been so fearfully destroyed. We wept that the manly Edward had not power to contend with those fascinations, which were the wreck of hope, peace, and life.

"He was entreated to forbear-but entreaties were useless. I shall restore my broken fortunes,' he would say, 'and wealth shall again be yours.' An ignis fatuus lured him on his health became impaired-his business was utterly neglected, and my poor sister, with her helpless family, were left without the means of support. He did not treat her with harshness; but O! such cruel neglect. He sacrificed at the card-table his property, his health, and his honor. The full moon just sinking to her rest, often witnessed him stealing to the sleepless bed-side of his wife; till at length selfrespect seemed entirely lost, and he would absent himself for several days, none knew where. Friends urged a separation. They had tried to reclaim him-they had remonstrated-they were at length disgusted. "You weep, my dear girls. Let the vail of oblivion Their object was now to prevail upon Mrs. Wilmot to rest on his memory; and raise it not but to dwell on return to the home of her childhood. O! how the his virtues, for he had many. Strive to fulfill the dulone heart will cling in its bitterness to that which it ties which shall be assigned you. Imitate the example has loved. She still hoped he would change; and when of your mother in her tenderness-her fortitude-her she thought of the work of ruin which had been ac-|| faith-and may nought but peace be written on the complished in a few short years, how could she leave her husband to degradation-a lost-a ruined man? She roused herself from the lethargy which hung over her, and determined to exert herself to obtain an adequate support for herself and her little ones. "To open a boarding-house appeared the most appropriate method of doing this, and in her efforts she was for awhile successful; but Mr. Wilmot's infatuation was such, that all consideration for his family seemed absorbed in one fatal passion. Again and again

page of your destiny."

It had been an unwelcome task for Mr. Converse to speak thus of the dead, and he revolved in his mind some mode of dissipating the sadness which he had increased by this recital; and then recollected a ride which he had in contemplation when he entered the room. My carriage is at the door, girls. Who would like to ride?”

"

"We will all go as soon as we get our faces washed, dear uncle," said Martha.

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"But why are you not preparing, Mary ?" exclaimed || and lags a little-and again, again, and yet more-and the kind uncle.

"Why," she replied, smiling through her tears, "I have to carry a composition to school this afternoon, and only look! I had it all written on my slate, and now you cannot see but a word here and there. Now I will go to ride if you will give me a few heads-my subject, The Old Bachelor."

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by this time, with half-unconscious volition, she has fallen on a surer and more positive tread. This is very well as a succedaneum, but it is not her best faculty or facility: though she takes more pains, she makes less progress. By and by she seems discontented even of this, and moves at an unwilling rate, ungainly and ungaining; and becoming still more discouraged, she fin

Agreed-agreed," said Mr. Converse, as he kissed ishes at last in the sullen, stolid style of," My lord's footthe cheek of his favorite niece.

A knock at the door arrested their preparation, and a domestic slipped in with a request from Mr. Merrill to see Miss Sophia. The party, equipped for the ride, were soon in the carriage, and Sophia was left to a solitary tete-a-tete with her fascinating beau. The tale she had just heard was sufficient to prevent her bestowing her hand on the elegant James Merrill. Future events showed to her that "all is not gold that glitters;" and in after life, she was grateful that she had not been involved in the fate of the defaulter.

Original.
WALKING.

J. A. S.

man in the Sulks."

Original.

PEDESTRANIA.

REPOSE AND PRAYER.

How beautiful is sleep. God not only spreads our bed and draws around us the curtain of darkness; but he fits us by lassitude to enjoy the somnolency which he bestows. Yet more than this-he watches and guards us whilst we sleep. Though in our physical body we lay like a clod of the valley, yet are we safe. We seem as dead: to the beholder our repose resembles that of death; so complete for the time is our inanition. Yet shall we revive and live again; out of this collapse of nerve and sinew shall we spring fresh and

and go rejoicing on her course. Who would not wor-
ship God? Who would not say a prayer? It is no
stretch of faith, at least there is no fatuity in supposing,
could the matter be tested by evidence, that perhaps no
damage occurs to any of His creatures who have com-
mended themselves and their dwelling, by a sincere and
humble prayer, to his protection before they slept? At
least, he were a hardy and hardened reprobate, a cast-
away from God's grace, who, knowing this fact, would
dare invade that house and its tenants during God's
night-watch, and they folded, as it were, in the arms of
the Shepherd.
C. M. B.

MR. EDITOR,-In the large and varied repast pre-elastic; nature shall again assume vitality and action, pared for the readers of the "Repository," the board is munificently spread. It affords of science, of the researches of black-letter-the learning of the schools, of Biblical erudition; of poesy, sentiment; of all the different styles of belles-lettres; as well as the practical and graphic delineations of positive and specific life, and much more. The table abounds, I say, in the best of a feast, in substantial middle dishes, in stands of venison, of ham, and solid joints—and of fish, flesh, and fowl. But though all who partake may be partially carniverous, yet many younger and of lighter tastes, may like a little admixture as their dessert-the blancmange, the whipt syllabub, the floating island, &c.; not to pacify appetite, but as a gusto, a regale to the senses at large, an intellectual bagatelle. I cater for these, and present you entre-met, No. 1, or the

ECONOMY OF WALKING.

Being in good health, I am also habitually in good spirits; and when I take a walk of recreation and am not in haste, I have a spontaneous Atalantean spring, which is in itself a delight, an unconscious winning of my way. But when I commence a long walk, one a little more extensive than either health or enjoyment would require, in the beginning, being fresh and strong, I assume by economy, a light, elastic, Camilla-like motion, sliding, as it were, to the elevation of a second step before the first is finished. Much ground is gained by this method; besides that, we draw upon a set of accessaries, which anon may take rest, whilst others are summoned to the field. The principals, i. e., the feet, must be acting all the while: but some of their sub-agents may, by a little management, "spell" each other, to the advantage of all. After having drawn upon the sinews and muscles for awhile, nature flags

Original.
MOONLIGHT.

BY J. E. EDWARDS.

"When I consider the heavens, the work of thy fingers; the moon and the stars, that thou hast ordained," Psalms.

THE stars are shining from afar,
While Cynthia rolls her silver car,
Along the vault of heaven:
Her mellow beams of softened light,
Stream through the curtains of the night,
Like grace on souls forgiven.

But soon the stars will fade away,
The moon will quench her beams in day,
In floods of brighter light:

So soon the Christian's life will end,
But in eternity he'll spend

A day without a night.

THE FLOWERS.

THE FLOWERS.

THE flowers, the flowers, the fair young flowers, how I love each rainbow hue,

That sparkles on their odorous cheeks when gemm'd

with pearly dew;

How I love to watch their soft young buds in beauty and light unfold,

Arrayed in a regal purple vest, or emerald green, and gold.

Or glittering bright in an azure robe, like the brow of the arching sky,

Or the vermeil tints that o'er the cheek of blushing beauty fly;

How lovely is the violet, so innocent, and meek,

How beautiful the empress rose, with her lovely, tinted cheek.

The violet, how like the babe, with soft and trusting eye, So loving, and confidingly, turn'd to the laughing sky; And O! how like fair beauty's spring, in young life's morning hour,

Is the delicate bloom of the virgin rose-queen of the sylvan bower.

O! the rose has faded long ago-her short, sweet life is o'er,

By stream, and wood, and garden bower, we find her flowers no more.

How anxiously, how anxiously, I watch'd her buds unclose;

How sigh'd, when from the dying stem, fell summer's last sweet rose.

Strange, that 'mong all the laughing flowers that spread the silken wing,

Beneath the warm, blue, summer sky, or in the gales of spring;

The rose, the fair, imperial rose, should stir my heart alone,

With such deep, gushing mournfulness, when her sweet flowers are gone.

Yet thus it is-and ever still, a strange, mysterious chain, Link'd to youth's golden memories, recalls those hours again,

When mingling with the kindred band, beside the social hearth,

Life seem'd one long, bright gala-day, of happiness and mirth.

O! where is now that youthful band, the soul of home's sweet bowers,

Who sang, and laugh'd, and danc'd away the young, unfetter'd hours?

Scatter'd afar by mount and stream, 'neath many a changing sky,

'Mid stranger flowers they sadly mark, sweet summer gliding by.

And he with warm and generous breast, and mind of loftiest tone,

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The life-pulse of each gushing heart-O gone, for ever gone!

Where the wild winds of autumn moan'd, o'er prairies of the west,

Sad strangers heap'd the fresh, green sod, above his manly breast.

The flowers, the flowers, the fair young flowers, of our sweet home of mirth,

Ne'er shall they all united bloom, in one parterre on earth;

But blissful is the trusting hope, to the bereav'd one given,

That they shall all immortal bloom in an unchanging heaven. SOPHIA.

Original.

THE SABBATH.

"Tis holy Sabbath day! How sweet the calm
Of quiet holiness, doth rest upon
Reposing Nature's bosom!

No rude plough
Now sinks its iron tooth in furrows deep-
Nor hum of busy labor wakes the air-
Nor voice of axe is heard:

But all is " "peace!"
The earth seems worshiping, alike with man,
Him, whose supreme benevolence did form,
And fashion, in His wisdom, work so fair!

O what a chain of golden links we see,
In bright succession, all creation through!
Far upward on his throne, above the heavens,
God, in his glory, shines!

His love divine,
O'erflowing in its goodness, like a sea
Of golden waters, gushes down to earth;
Spreading its rich profusion o'er his works,
And bidding all rejoice!

Canst thou, O man,
On this, His hallow'd day-this day of rest,
Refuse thy tuneful pow'rs to sing his praise?
Wilt thou, for whom both earth and heav'n were made,
Refuse to bow in humble thankfulness,
Before His throne whose mercy gave thee life?
Wilt thou, in all the scorn of haughty pride,
Spurn from thine heart the blessed influence
That moves thee heavenward?

Pause, O pause and think;
O choose the "better part"-that thus thy God,
May so infill thy spirit with his love,
That it shall ever seek to know his will,
And walk in all his ways!

Then, when creation meets
Thine eye, in all its varied loveliness,
As now it doth, upon this Sabbath morn;
Thy grateful songs, with nature's shall accord:
Thus man and nature worship nature's God!

R. J. A.

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