"Twenty years have now elapsed," wrote Mr. Graham, "since we parted. The events which have marked that period, have probably so strongly influenced the characters of each, that we might almost look, in vain, for a trace of former feelings and opinions. You, I am told, have been for several years, the Minister of village, in Connecticut. I, soon after my establishment here, married. In a few years after our marriage, my wife, by the death of a distant relation, came into possession of an extensive plantation. Since then, fortune has continued to smile. Our lots have been differently cast yours has been of a calm, mine of a bustling kind. Perhaps, if the amount of happiness were computed, the balance might be equal. I have but one son, and I still retain too much of northern prejudice and feeling, to be satisfied with his being merely a rich slave-holder, with no ideas beyond it. The very circumstance of his being constantly surrounded by dependents, and those who know his high expectations will exert an influence unfriendly to his future character. I wish him to be a kind master; to be to them, what I have endeavored to be, and I know nothing so likely to produce this end, as a residence of a few years at the North, where he may, at the same time, by a course of collegiate study, be better preparing himself for the responsibilities of his situation, as a man of influence and wealth. I leave it to you, my dear friend, to determine what has been his progress, to direct what it may be. I leave it to you also, to decide what is the influence of a tropical climate, in producing mental as well as bodily languor; trusting, if the current of thought has been slow, your keen northern air will quicken it."

To a request like this, Mr. Wells could not return a negative; he wrote to his friend-accepted the trust. Alas! he little knew the results of such an engagement. The appearance of Henry Graham said more for him than any labored description could do. The full dark eye spoke intelligence; the finely formed forchead, and the noble expression of his countenance, though not decidedly handsome, at first sight influenced every one in his favor; and, contrary to the expectations of Mr.Wells, there was a quickness of thought, a facility of acquiring knowl→ edge, which surprised him. Henry's progress in college was rapid, but while his anxious friend observed, with pleasure, all that was bright in the picture, he could not be blind to its shades; he saw that Henry's mind, though quick in its perceptions, was not sound in its decisions. It had been from child

hood, rather the recipient of other's ideas, than the source of its own. Instruction had been given, but that most useful of all had been withheld; he had never learned to decide, compare, and reflect; to form his decisions, upon his own standard of right and wrong, and not on the opinion of the world. He often exhibited noble feelings; he expressed the purest sentiments. But then, he was virtuous from impulse, not from principle; a weak barrier against the temptations of life.

Courted and flattered as was the young heir, in the circles of fashion, by the wealthy aristocracy of our land, still the humble roof of Mr. Wells offered him attractions, which no splendid mansion could boast; for there the smile of Catharine greeted him, and there was her inventive genius, ever ready to form a thousand plans of pleasure, in his occasional residence with them.

As the period approached, when Henry was to graduate, and leave New England, he believed forever, the secret of his own heart was revealed; he felt that he loved Catharine—that without her, wealth, influence, every thing, would lose its charm; but he knew too well the sentiments of Mr. Wells, to believe any visions of splendor would induce him to consent to a union, which must lead to an almost total separation from this cherished object of his affection. Besides, even his self-love could not deny, that had other circumstances been favorable to his suit, he was not the man whom Mr. Wells would select for the husband of his Catharine; for he had heard him repeatedly declare that firmness of purpose, and strength of principle, were the only pledges of future respectability and worth.

"A few days only now remain," thought Henry, as the carriage which conveyed him to Mr. Wells', turned an angle of the road, which brought the house full upon his view, while the bright light from its windows lent a friendly ray in the gathering darkness of evening; "a few days only," he repeated, "but I shall have new scenes and new pleasures, and she will be but as a bright vision, which has crossed my path." Not such were his feelings, when he entered the house, and found their circle enlarged by the addition of the cousin, and as he soon learned destined husband of Catharine. A short observation was sufficient to convince him, that William Lawrence, if his inferior in the advantages of person and situation, was yet in every thing which Mr.Wells deemed most important, decidedly his superior. All his resolutions vanished, and he rejoiced to find, in

his first private interview with Catharine, that her affection for her cousin was a calm chastened sentiment, such as she would feel for a brother-that which he had inspired, a deep and ardent passion.

Yet it was not without many and oft-repeated arguments, urged with all the eloquence and sweetness of his insinuating tone, that Graham could prevail on her to consent to a clandestine marriage, with the assurance that he would soon return, with such plans for her father, that he could not withhold his blessing and pardon. She, at length, consented. But when Graham left her, though with a promise soon to see her again, she felt herself alone, deserted; for there is a strange feeling of desolation, in the consciousness that one painful secret is concealed within our own hearts, in which we can claim no sympathy with those we love. She felt that her father and cousin had been deceived. Her ingenuous mind could no longer endure concealment; and, upon the generosity of that injured cousin, she resolved to throw herself. She told him of the step she had taken, and entreated him to obtain her father's pardon. Catharine had never plead in vain, nor did she now. Not one reproach fell from her father's lips; but with a feeling of deeper tenderness, he looked upon his child, deserted as he now believed her; for his penetration told him, that the rose once gathered by Graham, would soon be thrown neglected by.

The letters which the young wife at first received, were all that love could ask. But at length, it became evident that new objects were effacing the memory of the past, his promises of return were less frequent; and a law-suit which essentially involved his father's interests, afforded him a pretence for protracted absence; yet Catharine believed, when she wrote to inform him of the birth of a son, he must hasten to her-far otherwise, his letters now were received only at distant intervals, and soon wholly ceased.

It is the very intensity of suffering, which proves to us how deep and enduring are the energies of our minds, and whispers that what is capable of such intense feeling, must have an immortal destination. Her complete desertion, the death of her aged parent, told Catharine more of her own heart, than she had every known before.

Years passed away, in the exercise of kindness and charity to others; in the education of her little Henry; with no events to vary its monotony, her life flowed on, when one evening as

Henry was first repeating to her his evening prayer, she was disturbed by an unusual noise in the passage, leading to her room. The next moment, a gentleman in a riding dress entered, but so changed, that even the eye of affection could scarcely recognize in the coarse features, and rough figure which stood before her-the slight and graceful form, the intelligent countenance, on which her fond imagination had so often dwelt. His expression of attachment and delight at again seeing her; (for it was Henry Graham,) his admiration of the boy's beauty, seemed forgotten the moment they were uttered. There was a restlessness in his eye, an expression of discontent, which every one knows, who meets the objects of his former love-the objects whose esteem as well as affection, he feels that he once possessed, but has now forfeited. The slightest neglect or blunder from his servants, would excite him to anger, and call forth such expressions of violence, as alarmed the little Henry, accustomed as he was only "to the clear heaven of his mother's eye."

"Do not, my dear papa; mama says it is wicked to be angry, or hurt any body, and that it offends the good God. I cannot love any thing wicked, and yet I do love you, oh, very much," and he ran to kiss his father.

"And who taught you to love me, Henry?"

"Oh! my mama told me to pray for you every night."

"Your mama is an angel," said the softened Graham, as he passed his hand through the rich clustering curls of Henry's hair.

When Graham left Connecticut, he certainly loved the being to whom he had just vowed attachment, more than any other object. He was proud too of her beauty. But his was a character formed rather for ardent than deep impressions; other objects of interest soon presented themselves; and when, a few months after his return, the death of his father left him uncontrolled master of himself, and immense wealth, he formed a connexion with several young men, who, under the veil of seducing manners, and with the boast of freedom from the shackles of prejudice and of religion, led him into every species of dissipation. These gradually undermined his health, and destroyed his happiness. In such scenes, amidst the loudest revels of vice, the thoughts of his deserted wife and child, would sometimes intrude. But, altered as he was, in character and even in appearance, how could he appear before them?

He certainly never intended to make the attempt. But a violent sickness which threatened to terminate his life, gave him time for reflection, and brought to his remembrance some of the better feelings of his youth Besides, he knew that, at his death, a stranger must succeed to his estate, if not claimed by his son.

The heart of woman can endure neglect, desertion; even the death of the object in whom all her earthly love had centred; all she can endure, but to see that object, enshrined within her heart of hearts, fallen, changed-to feel that the seal of virtue is no longer upon him, that even its very image has departed! This was Catharine's trial.

The absence from his usual associates, and his accustomed excitements, soon made Graham weary of his present life, and desirous of returning to Louisiana. The preparations for their departure were quickly made. On their arrival in New Orleans, the health of Catharine, (which gradually and almost imperceptibly to herself, had been failing under the trials of that "hope deferred," whose baneful effects are so proverbial,) became so delicate, that she was unable to proceed farther, even upon the short journey to her husband's residence. I had formerly known Mr. Wells, and a casual meeting, a slight acquaintance, which is soon forgotten when surrounded by nearer and dearer ties, in a land of strangers, becomes a bond of affinity. I urged her removal to my house, till restored health might enable her to leave this city. That time, alas! never arrived. The elasticity of her step, the bloom of her cheek were gone, and, in a few weeks she breathed her last, with a broken prayer, in which the united names of her husband and child could alone be distinguished.

Portsmouth, Nov. 12th, 1830.

L. E.

THE SOCIETY.

The following article, and "Biographical Notice of Robert Fulton," were contributed by members of a Literary Society in this city, comprising Ladies and Gentlemen, who devote one evening, each week, to the discussion of subjects of literature and science We intend soon to give a more particular de