THE RICHMOND COUNTY MIRROR: A WEEKLY PAPER PRINTED ON STATEN ISLAND, DEVOTED TO SCIENCE, LITERATURE, & NEWS. THREE DOLLARS PER ANNUM. NEW BRIGHTON, APRIL 13, 1839. VOLUME III.-NUMBER XI. OR THE SELECT TALES. From the Lady's Bock. HOUSE ON THE HEATH. BY MRS. THAYER. In early youth, when hope is new, The licort expands with love and joy; And pleasure secias without alloy. But soon, alas! too soon 'tis post,' E. M. B. dressed in white, is seen to flit past the windows of the | she would have considered it the height of presumption all the stories which had beeen hushed for many years, 66 "No doubt, no doubt," replied the first speaker, and the landlady afterwards assured her gossips of the tap room, that "the old witch's voice made her blood run cold, it was like the grating of a saw." The landlady, having promised, now took her departure, to spread the news of the strange woman, who had come, with heaps of money, to live in "the house or the heath," and the beautiful child, “belle comme un ange" that she had with her. In a short time, the necessary articles of furniture wer procured, and the inhabited part of the mansion assume an air of comfort. The old woman, or Mrs. Saunder son, as she was called, lived entirely secluded; her only companion the lovely little Ama, who might be seen the long summer's day, sporting over the heathy waste, perchance chasing some truant butterfly, or singing some childish song of the home which her young heart had not forgotten. Such being the belief, it may well be supposed that no After examining the house, the old woman decided little sensation was caused by the appearance of smoke upon two of the lower rooms, and one chamber; for issuing from the chimney, giving indication that human which, giving her purse to the wondering landlady, she beings had taken possession of the long avoided spot. desired her to procure materials of the commonest kind, It was early in the spring of 18-, that an old and sin-to furnish; "and," she continued, "the remainder," gularly ugly woman, accompanied by a little girl, six or pointing to the money, "keep for your trouble. I shall seven years old, alighted from a public stage, at the lit-want a woman to do the work of the house, but she may tle auberge on the Lochine road, and called for break- sleep at your house. I will pay for all. Will you do fast; during the meal, the old woman inquired of the my business?" landlady if there was not near by, an old house, the pro SOME years ago, a traveller upon the turnpike be-perty of one Mr. Auley? At the sound of that name, tween Montreal and Lachine might have observed, at an equal distance from each, an old building, situated in the midst of a wild and dreary tract of land, presenting to the eye a scene of unmitigated desolation. The curse of Nature seemed to rest upon that spot; vegetation was at a stand; for, save a few stunted pine trees, the earth presented nothing but a meagre covering of short, dry, sun-burnt grass. The house itself was in a most dilapidated state; one end, indeed, had partly crumbled to the earth; the shattered window frames swayed with every blast. The other end, though not equally ruinous, was still the last place which any one, who had ever experienced the sensation conveyed by the word comfort, would have chosen for a place of comfort. It was inhabited, however, and that, too, by beings of the gentler sex. For many years "the house on the heath" (so it was called) had been untenanted. There was a traditionary legend respecting its having once belonged to a very wealthy man, who had inhabited it for a very short time, with a lovely young creature, whom he called his wife. They lived a very secluded life; never visiting or receiving visitors; and seldom seen beyond their own precincts. It became a subject of wonder that they should have chosen such a gloomy place of residence; the feeling was soon converted into curiosity as to the why and the wherefore of the manner of living, of people who evidently did not lack for this world's goods. But as there appeared no way by which the mystery could be solved, Mr. Auley, so was the gentleman called, keeping no servants, it is probable that the whole affair would have been entirely forgotten, had not accident recalled them to the minds of their neighbors. One cold, stormy evening in November, about a year after Mr. Auley took possession of the isolated dwelling above described, a peasant having been belated in his return from market, thinking to shorten the distance to his home, directed his course through Mr. Auley's premises. He noticed a light burning in one of the upper chambers, but it was not late enough in the night for that to cause any surprise. He hastened on, and had just turned the corner of the house when his steps were arrested by a faint scream, succeeded by sobs, and what seemed to him supplications for mercy. He listened in breathless silence, but no other sound reached his ear.The next morning it was discovered that the house on the heath was empty. A diligent search was made throughout the premises, but no light was thrown upon the mysterious affair. Mr. Auley and his young wife had disappeared, no one knew how. It was the generally received opinion that he murdered her, and many affirm to this day, that on every anniversary of the night when it was supposed the evil deed was done, a figure, "No doubt, no doubt. Suspicion! Aye, he came Thus years passed on, and Ama had attained her fifhere for quiet and retirement. He mixed not with the teenth year, and had returned from school, where, for babbling race that surrounded him—his heart was strick-two years, she had been perfecting the education, comen with sorrow, and he came here, seeking to forget, in solitude, that bright hopes had once been his. And from this your suspicions were aroused! but how could it be otherwise? you would suspect aa angel, if he came not to your sink of iniquity, and partook not of your distilled poisons. Frederick Auley an object of suspicion to the vile mongrel breed, half Indian, half habitant, that people this accursed land!" This was too much for the good nature of the usually smiling landlady; the imputation cast upon her country and people was more than she could bear. She advanced to the old woman, whom she interrupted in the midst of her vituperations. "Eh bien ma vielle! then what did you come here for? we want no foreign beggars to eat the bread of our children. What is it you want among us; have you come to take up your abode in the murderer's house? well, it is a fit place for you, with the frogs and crows for companions-but where got you that child? she is none of yours, I know such an ugly old witch could not have such a beautiful child. Say, did you steal her?" "Woman, you rave! but I waste time. Here, take your price for your petty meal, of which we have partaken, and then show me the way to the house. I will pay you, even to your rapacious heart's content. Lead the way! be quick! Ama," she continued, addressing the child, in a voice as mild and gentle as it had hitherto been jarring, "come, pet, can you walk a little ways?— it cannot be far from here, if my directions were right." The landlady, completely mollified by the sight of her guest's well filled purse, now led the way in silence till she came to what had once been a gateway, leading to the old house. There she would have left them; but the old woman, in a stern, peremptory manner insisted upon her entering the dwelling with them. Accordingly, the landlady, to her own utter astonishment, found herself actually inside the dwelling which, a few hours before, menced under her mother's eye-returned to her dreary home, rendered ten times more dreary by the comparison she was now enabled to make between it and the homes of her school mates. True, it was occasionally brightened by visits from those mates, more especially by one, whom of all others she most loved; the one whom she had chosen as the friend of her young pure heart. One evening, after a day spent with her young friend, Ama sat listlessly gazing upon an open book before her, one hand supported her finely formed head, the other rested upon the unread page; all the bright, glossy hair thrown back, as if the clustering ringlets which usually shaded the fair face beneath, had been burdensome in the hour of painful thought, and had been impatiently pushed away. Long did the young girl remain in this attitude. At length, rising from her seat, and pacing the room rapidly, she exclaimed "I cannot endure it; I shall die!" “Endure what, my child?" asked her mother, who had watched with an expression of sorrow and pity every movement of her she called child. "What cannot you endure?—but why should I ask?" she continued, in a voice of sorrow, "I know how it is with you, you grow tired of your poor old mother. You would go out into the world, which your fancy paints as an elysium, You would exchange the tried and trusty friend of years the protectress of your infancy, for the song and the dance, and the companionship of your new found friend, your Ella Crosby. Well, be it so. Go, leave the old woman. I have no fears of solitude, and at least it can be but for a few years. Go to your friend, and learn by experience, the value of the friendship which now shines in your eyes like refined gold. I have well studied that girl's character, I have marked the haughty flash of her eye; and I tell you, Ama, she knows nothing of the friendship of which you dream. She will take you from your obscurity, she will give you a home in her fa ther's mansion, and a seat at the family board, and while the world's applauses, which will follow the noble deed ' are ringing in her ears, you will be her 'dear Ama,' her 'sweet friend' but the novelty will soon pass away; the world will grow tired of applauding, and then the 'sweet friend' will sink to the humble companion, and from the humble componion to the dependent, the slave of the rich heiress. Ama, when that day comes return to your old mother, her arms will be ever open to receive you." "Why do you talk so to me? I have no wish to leave you. Never in my secret heart, have I for one moment thought of accepting Ellen's invitation; although I do not, cannot doubt her friendship, I will not leave you; but why need we live in this dreary, obscure place? my heart yearns, I acknowledge it, for the society I enjoyed while at school. Let us remove to the city. I know it is not poverty that keeps us here." Never, Ama! I lay no restraint upon you; on the contrary, I wish you to accept Miss Crosby's offer. And Ama, you have often asked me of your father, of your former home. I will consign to your keeping a manuscript which will give you the information you seck: but you must promise me not to open it until my death, or till my prophecy of your friend is fulfilled. Go, now, to your bed, and sleep off the hectic of discontent. Tomorrow you shall remove to the city." 'No, no, I will never leave you. You have been to me as a mother, and even though I may not have the claim of a child to your affections, (so your words have sometimes made me think) I, at least, owe you much, much gratitude. You have ever been kind and indulgent to me, humoring my often wayward whims, bearing patiently my petulent repinings for change. No no, I never can leave you. I grieve that I have offended you, and will endeavor to do so no more." "You have not offended me, I tell you. It is my wish that you should accept Miss Crosby's invitation.Good may come of it. Go to bed now, and we will talk more on this subject at another time." * always received her with a joyful welcome; and listen- | cast it aside, with those which preceded it. But they To all this the old woman listened attentively; but never allowed a doubt to cross her lips. She saw that her child was happy, and not for the world would she have shortened the brief respite which her experience of the world, and knowledge of the human heart, told her remained of happiness for the artless girl whose hopes rested, she knew, upon crumbling sands which were, even now, loosened, and would soon be washed away by the overwhelming sea of vanity and jealousy at work in the bosom of her she called her friend. All this the old woman knew though she spoke not of it; but when, after an unusual absence of several weeks, her child again visited her with a pale cheek and a dimmed eye, she knew that "a change had come o'er the spirit of her dream." "Why have you been so long away, Ama?" asked she. The girl, unused to equivocation, blushed as she answered-" I could not have the carriage sooner, and Mr. Crosby does not like that any of the family should walk so far, or I would gladly have walked; for I have longed to see you.” "An hour. I promised Ellen that I would not stay longer, for she wants the carriage to ride this afternoon." "Are you going to ride with her?" Ne," "How is that? I thought you always rode with her." Ama returned to her adopted home with her heart lightened, in a degree, by the knowledge that her long tried friend had read the secret of her disquietude, and not only sympathized with her, but was willing again to receive her at her peaceful though retired home. She hastened to her own room, to avail herself of the privilege she had received, of perusing the manuscript which her supposed mother had given her on their first separation. It was in the form of a letter, as follows: "DEAR AMA, child of my love; when you read these lines, either the hand that wrote them will be mouldering in the earth, or you, loved one, will have learnt that the world is not a temple of truth.' You will have learned what I foolishly thought to shield you from, the dear bought knowledge that 'friendship is indeed but a name.' You will go out into the world. I have long "Poor child, poor child!—and how long can you stay. known that it must be so; I have watched you when you "You may read the manuscript I gave you, Ama, when you please. Poor child! bitter, I know full well, are the tears you now shed. Hard is the first disap"And you will always live with me, dear Ama, al-pointment to the young heart-the first doubt of those ways, and be my sister? O, I am so happy! our lives will be like a bright summer's day! You shall never go back to the haunted house, or the old witch that inhabits it. Now don't frown, sweet, she is not your mother, I know." "No, Ellen, she is not my mother, I now feel convinced. I know not the tie which has bound her to me so long, but it is one I am bound to revere. She has been a kind parent to me-stern, cold and forbidding she may be others, but to me she has been gentle and affectionate; and I love her as well, Ellen, as you can love your mother." I it loves-it droops, it withers, but it does not break- "Deceitful friends have cast Aside the veil they used to wear." But still, with the elastic hopes of youth clinging, yearningly clinging to the semblance of truth; till, deceived and trampled upon by the cold and heartless, its gushing tenderness thrown back, it becomes by degrees sear-friends, or such as are called so, will grow cold, and, aled and hardened, and ends by believing all false, all heartless. You, Ama, have taken the world's first lesson; it needs no words to tell me of it-tears have been your companions oftener than smiles, of late. You have longed to see me. I know it. You have longed to lay your head upon my bosom, as in infancy you did, and forget that the allurements of the world had ever parted us; your young heart has been torn, and you yearned "Well, well, then we will say no more about her. won't even mention her name again, lest I should call up that serious expression, which I assure you does not become your dimpled face half so well as smiles. Come now to my father and mother, who are waiting to welcome their new daughter. In the afternoon, we will drive to my milliner and dress maker, for you must be remodelled from head to foot. In the evening I am go-to open it before me; but they would not let you; they ing out, but I will leave you my list of engagements for the week, in all of which you will of course, share, as soon as it is known that you are here. There is the bell; papa is impatient to see you; so come along; but Į tell you beforehand, I shall not submit to your stealing all his love from me." kept you from me; for they were ashamed, aye, they, the though your pure heart shrinks at admitting aught like suspicion; by degrees the bitter truth will be forced on it, that you have been deceived. Then, Ama, you will think of the friend whom you have left solitary. Then will the remembrance of past days of peace rise up, and you will sigh that you have bartered them for a bubble. But I will pursue this subject no further; it was of myself I wished to speak-of myself and your parents. I linger at my task, Ama, for it will be very bitter to me to recall the past. Rather would I allow the shades of oblivion to rest upon all that concerns myself; but it is necessary that you should be informed who were the authors of your being; and so intimately was my existence interwoven with theirs, that in recounting their history, I must of necessity recount my own. I was the only child of my parents, and the heiress to their ample fortune. I was reared in the midst of abundance, but those kind friends, with their usual judicious thoughtfulness, early taught me the instability of riches. and the wisdom of habituating myself to depend on my ning was to me the most delightful in my existence; and for ever. I felt that a mystery hung over us, which but own resources. They spared no expense in my educa- I, who had never allowed the dream of love to cross my once solved, would destroy my happiness; and I had not tion; but sought more those accomplishments that tend mind, learned to think the hours long and wearisome the courage to solve it. Too soon-too soon was all exto the adornment of the mind, than the light graces that when not passed in his society. I gave him an invita-plained! go to make up a fashionable lady's education. In person tion to pass some time at my house. The presence of One morning, not feeling well, I did not descend to I was always very plain, and, as you know, slightly de-an aunt, who had resided with me since my father's breakfast, and passed the greater part of the forenoon in formed; but as the heiress to an extensive property, I death, allowed me with perfect propriety to do so. He my chamber. It was near the dinner hour when my was sufficiently attractive to have many suitors-world- accepted my invitation; and now a new life dawned on aunt entered my room in a hurried manner, and seemly minded beings who would sell their souls for Mam-me; a life of pure, unalloyed happiness. Oh, why did ingly much excited; she took my hand, and almost mon' How I despised them! Early in life, I formed an it not last! or why did I not die before the change came? dragged me to her apartment, where, motioning for me attachment to a young girl of nearly ay own age, but For several months this dreamy state of existence con- to remain quiet, she led me to a window which overlookbeautiful as I was plain. She was a bright creature, with tinued. I loved deeply, devotedly; and felt that I was ed the garden, and immediately beneath it, and under a a smile and a song ever on her lips; her large deep blue beloved in return. We were betrothed, and I gave my-large tree, almost hid by the branches, I had caused a eye seemed to look cut from a soul of purity and truth, self up to delightful anticipations of the future. About little summer house to be built. I had remained at the and I imagined that not a shadow of falsehood could this time, Alice, who had been travelling with her aunt, open window but a moment when I heard Mr. Ainsever darken it. I loved her with the intensity which al returned, after having performed the last filial duties to ford's voice, at first low and almost unintelligible, but it ways characterised my feelings: and when I became her remains. She died at some distance from home, at a gradually became louder, until every word came to my an orphan, I offered her a home and a share of the wealth place where they had been residing for the benefit of sea ear with a maddening distinctness. of which I was mistress. She would gladly have accep- bathing. Alice came immediately to me; I received her ted of the offer as freely as it was made, but she could with the warmth of sincere friendship, delighted to innot leave the aged relative with whom she was living; | troduce to each other, the two beings that I most loved. who had supplied to her the place of parents since her Mr. Ainsford had gone out when Alice came, and did infancy. I was obliged to submit; but my home was not return until evening. I never had seen my friend dreary to me, and the greater part of the time I spent look so beautiful; her mourning dress contrasted so well with Alice. I sought not, I wished not for any society with her clear white skin; and at the same time seemed but hers. I would have been contented to have lived to solicit sympathy and interest for the young orphan, apart from all the world, never to mirgle again in its deprived of her last relative. Mr. Ainsford looked on scenes, had Alice been with me. Yet, as I looked upon her with evident admiration; and when she retired, he her, lovely as she was, and met the laughing glance of spoke warmly in praise of her beauty and grace. Pleased her eye, I felt that she was formed for a far different with his admiration of my friend, I spoke of her as my sphere. I became selfish in my affection, and when I feelings dictated; I represented as being as pure, her as thought of her giving her heart and uniting her fate guileless as she was beautiful; told of her untiring devo with another, I almost wished that she had been less tion to the aged relative for whom she was now mournfair. I sometimes spoke to her upon this subject, when ing. I noticed that he seemed much interested in my she would twine her arms around me, and assure me discourse, and asked me many questions concerning Alagain and again, that she could never love any one bet-ice's birth and parentage. But so totally free was I from ter than me. (C And even," she would say, "should I marry, does it necessarily follow that I should love you less? Be assured that I will never marry any one who does not appreciate your character. My husband will love my friend as dearly as I love her." "I loved to hear her talk thus, for I thought that she spoke from her heart. any thing like a feeling of jealousy, that I not only an- The next day I, as usual, passed the morning with my betrothed husband. But not as usual, alone with him. Alice now joined in our studies; she, also, became his "Years passed, and we both remained unmarried; for scholar in Spanish and Italian; and, being a beginner, myself, I had never even wished to change my condi- naturally required more of the attention of our mutual tion. Morbidly sensitive upon the subject of my perso-instructor than I, who had made some progress in the nal appearance, I forgot that a sensible man who, in languages. Mr. Ainsford was indefatigable in his exchoosing a wife, sceks not merely a toy to amuse his lei-planations and definitions; and pleased with the aptsure hours; but a companion and friend, capable of shar-ness of his new scholar, he lingered over the lessons; ing in his graver pursuits, to whom he may unfold his Low commending her quickness, now pointing out a most secret thoughts, secure of sympathy and counsel, peculiar beauty of the language. In the mean time, I will consider mere beauty of but minor consequence. I concluded my usual morning avocation, and laying aside shrunk from the thought of uniting myself to any one, my books, I notified them that it was time to prepare for allured by my wealth alone, to seek my hand. As for riding, if we wished to return to dinner. Alice, she had been so unremittingly attentive upon her infirm relative, that she had met with no one on whom she could bestow her heart. for many months. Days and weeks passed on in this Again Mr. Ainsford's attentions were in requisition. Alice had never mounted a horse, and her timidity was to be overcome-her horse to be led-in fine, I saw my When I had attained my twenty-fifth year, in compli- lover's attentions engrossed by another; still, no feeling ance with the wishes of my friends, I celebrated my of displeasure crossed my mind, but I did not enjoy the birth day by an entertainment. Among the guests in-ride, and retired that night less happy than I had been vited was an elderly gentleman, an old acquaintance of mine, who requested permission to bring with him a stranger who had brought introductory letters to him from his friends in England. I readily consented, little thinking how much my after life would be influenced by the events of that evening. Mr. Ainsford (the name of the stranger) came, was introduced to me, and requested my hand in the dance. I think I never met with a more prepossessing person; he was not handsome, but there was a dignity, a nobility (if I may so speak) about him, that more than supplied the deficiency; and his conversation was varied and refined; in short, that eve Alice, who for some time had seemed to me changed, as the day for my nuptials drew near, became sad and thoughtful, sometimes even melancholy. Mr. Ainsford too, from being ever gay and joyous, had become grave and abstracted; often sitting for hours without saying a word, unless addressed. Still I was blind; I could not see that which, once seen, would render me miserable "O, my Alice!" said he, "why did we ever meet? or rather, why did we not meet before this engagement was formed, from which honor forbids me to swerve.— And yet, dearest, there is a blessing in possessing your love, though you may never be more to me than you are now. More! how could you be more! are you not my heart's treasure, my beloved one?" "Hush, do not utter such words," replied my friend. "Why talk thus, when your actions belie your words? If you loved me as you say, the engagement you think of would not long remain a barrier between us. Think you if it had been my misfortune to have formed an engagement with another before I knew you, that I would have hesitated to dissolve it, when my heart no longer sanctioned it? As for the honor of which you speak, I can see none in a man's marrying a woman when he has not only ceased to love her, but loves another. I think it would be far more honorable to deal candidly with her; tell you no longer love her if such is the case, which, to tell the truth, I am a little inclined to doubt." "No, Alice, you do not doubt it. Your mirror must assure you that the contrast between the beautiful face which it reflects, and that of your friend's, is too striking not to prove prejudicial to her. But indeed, Alice, if I were to break my engagement with your friend, I have not the means to support a wife. You know how very limited my resources are." "Oh, that need be no obstacle, for Maria has repeatedly promised that when I married she would settle half her fortune on me for the privilege of living with me, so if that is your only objection, you may settle the matter immediately.” "Generous, noble hearted woman! Such were the qualities which won my regard and esteem, and must ever retain them. Your beauty and gentle, graceful manners, claim my love, but I can never cease to esteem and respect the disinterested Maria.” Oh, very well, respect her as much as you will.-— She is just the person to be respected; grave, moral, sententious and deformed. You may give her credit for all the virtues under the sun if you like, except humility, which I maintain she does not possess.” "I have ever considered Miss Saunderson as a truly humble Christian. In what respect does she lack humility?” "In supposing it possible that any man could love her. What but her vanity, think you, prevents her seeing that her betrothed husband's attentions are bestowed almost entirely upon her 'dear Alice?'" knew, could know, my anguish-my hopelessness,-for the light coquetry of her manners, which exposed her to fer, for I had never ceased to love him. Again I looked a few days I gave myself up to despair; I cared, not to insults, the greatest that could be offered to a virtuous to the future for happiness-agrin I admitted hope to live. I had been deceived where I most trusted; my married woman, professions of love from others than her my bosom-again pictured forth scenes of domestic enconfidence repaid by falsehood-my friend-my Alice, husband. He said that her welfare must always be the joyment-and again reaped disappointment—sad, withwhom I had considered pure and artless as an infant, sincere wish of his heart; but for the future, they mustering disappointment. had proved false, heartless, ungrateful. I brooded over be strangers. my disappointment in solitude and silence. I sought not for sympathy or pity. I would have spurned it. No, I taught my lip to smile, my tongue to utter light words, my brow to remain unclouded, and none suspected that the dank dews of despair had fallen upon my heart. I sought an interview with Mr. Ainsford, and gave him back his promises. I then settled one half of my property upon Alice; the remainder to devolve to her children at my death. Alice was subdued. She loved her husband as well as she could love any thing besides herself; but hor vanity and love of admiration would not allow her to be satisfied with the love of but one. But now that she was about to lose it, his affection seemed to her more valuable than the whole world besides. She begged him not to cast her off; promised solemnly to do all that he desired her, if he would but live beneath the same roof with her. He was inexorable; although she besought him on her knees for mercy and forgiveness, he still remained firm. It wanted but one week to the day we were to be mar ried, when Mr. Ainsford, returning home from a considcrable distance, was surprised by a sterm, and too impatient to reach home, to think of stopping till he arrived there, he became drenched to the skin. Every means was adopted to prevent the ill effects likely to arise from his imprudence, but in vain. A raging fever set in, and on the very day that was to have made me his wife, I saw him laid in the tomb. I will not attempt to describe my feelings. I have often wondered at the ways of providence-truly, they are "past finding out;” that I, for whom the world contained no tie, no charm, should still live on, while so many are taken away, while hope is yet young in their hearts; surrounded by all that makes This done, I but waited to see them married. Yes, I saw them married! I heard Frederick Ainsford vow to love another! My heart sickened within me, but out- That night they both left this place and returned to wardly I was firm. I saw him whom I loved place the New York, where Alice again took possession of my ring which was to have been mine, upon another's fin-house, and Mr. Ainsford took lodgings in a boarding-life dear. But Ile who takes note of the little sparrow, ger. I saw it all, and fainted not-wept not. I had nerved my soul for the trial, and God gave me strength to bear it. Immediately after they were married, I gave up my house to them, with the intention of passing some time in travelling with my aunt. Frederick urged me to remain with them; saying that their happiness would be incomplete without my presence. He was sincere! yes, even now I believe he was sincere! Alice, too, in her soft mild tones of endearment, begged her "beloved Maria" not to leave them. How I despised the sycophant! I turned from her almost with loathing. I left my home, my childhood's home, the home where my parents had lived and died. I left it and became a wanderer. Where I went, or how passed the years of my exile, it is not necessary now to relate. After two years absence, I returned again to my native land, and had I sought revenge, it was offered me. I found Alice still in my house, but her husband was not there. She had fulfilled the prophecy which a moment of bitterness had wrung from me, that the faithless friend would make the faithless wife. Soon after their marriage, Alice had given her husband cause to doubt the purity of her principles; but, wishing rather to reclaim her if possible, than to publish her error to the world, he removed from his residence, and came here, Ama, to this desolate spot, hoping that solitude and time for reflection, and absence from the tempter who sought to lure her to vice, might recal her to a sense of her duties as a wife, and member of society. Vain hope! that one who had openly counselled the disregard of engagements in one case, would ever e bound by them when opposed to the gratification of he moment! One morning, after they had lived here nearly a year n total seclusion, (at least on her part) Mr. Auley, the name by which he was known here, returning unexpectedly from a walk, found his wife earnestly perusing a letter. He calmly desired to see it; she, for some time, refused to show it to him; but at length, finding him determined to see it, she yielded. You may imagine his surprise on finding it written by the wretch, whom, in choosing this abode, he had sought to avoid; and written, too, evidently in answer to one from Alice. For a time, he spoke not a word; at length, addressing his wife in a mild but decided tone, he told her that he was now convinced of her depravity of heart; that the hope he had nourished, that her crror arose from thoughtlessness, and might be repented of, was now broken. He bade her returu to her former home: he told her that as a Christian he was bound to forgive her; and he did and more, he entreated her, for her own sake, to correct house, till he could arrange his affairs to permit of his leaving the country. I arrived at home the evening before the day fixed upon for his departure. After hearing the particulars of their lives during my absence, (which I have given you a brief sketch of,) from Alice, who, in relating it, spared not herself. She exonerated her husband from all blame; and said that she was alone in fault. So sincere appeared her penitence, that I thought it warranted my undertaking to bring about a reconciliation. I therefore sent immediately to inform Mr. Ainsford of my return and desire to see him. He obeyed my summons. I received him alone, and after a few preliminary remarks I commenced my office of mediatrix. I represented to him, in as strong a light as I was able, the disgrace and humiliation attending on separations; painted the solitary life to which it must consign both parties, and dwelt upon my conviction of her sincerc repentance; but, for a long time, in vain. He said he had forgiven her, but he never wished to see her again; his hopes were blasted! He knew that he deserved all his sufferings, for his faithlessness toward one far, far too good for him-he knew that he deserved it, and he hoped to bear his lot with resignation-he would leave the scenes of his disappointment—he would pray that God would direct and guide her, but he could never again call that being wife, who had deceived him, and whom he could neither respect or esteem. It is not necessary that I should recapitulate all the arguments I used to obtain my object; suffice it, that I did, at length, obtain it. I led him to the room where Alice was, and left them alone. What passed between them at that interview, I never knew. The result was a reconciliation. The next day, Mr. Ainsford again became an inhabitant of the same dwelling with his wife, and I think he never had reason to repent it. He could not, it is true, forget the past-he could never again place the same trust and confidence in Alice, as before he had learnt to doubt her truth. But her conduct was ever afterwards perfectly correct. I do not think that Alice was ever happy after their separation. She was conscious that she had forfeited her husband's esteem; and the thought wore upon her. She became sickly and melancholy.She had several children, all of whom died in their in fancy. She used to say sometimes that the curse of God was upon her, and that she should never hear the dear name of mother from child of hers. Her presentiment proved true. She died soon after the birth of her sixth child, a fine healthy babe. and clothes the lily of the ñeld, has given to cach his allotted time, and I do not complain. I trust that my life has not been quite uscless; at least, I have fulfilled the trust imposed upon me by your father! I have been a friend to you, my Ama, have I not? Immediately after Mr. Ainsford's death, I took the child-you, Ama, consigned to me by his care, and sought this spot. I longed for solitude and seclusion, and I have found them.— The rest you know." When Ama had finished the manuscript, her first impulse was to return to the friend of her childhood; but she curbed her impatience, resolved to wait till the next day. In the evening, Ellen, who was preparing for a party, called, as latterly had been her custom, on Ama, to assist her in the duties of the toilet. The ci-devant friend and adopted sister unhesitatingly complied with the ungracious request, but she could not prevent her thoughts from dwelling upon the events which that day had made known to her. She obeyed the haughty Ellen's directions as far as was in her power; but a lady's maid requires to have all her thoughts about her, when preparing her mistress for a party. Ama committed several blunders, which cost her several reprimands from the lady whom she was attending, whose patience became quite exhausted when her absent minded tire-woman actually put on her beautiful dress wrong side before, and composedly commenced fastening it in that state. A rude push, and an accusation of stupidity, was her reward. It was now Ama's turn to be offended. She was usually good nature itself, but even a worm will turn when trodden upon. "Stupidity! Miss Crosby? Well, perhaps I am stupid, for I did not commence the business of waiting maid till I was too old to acquire it in perfection." "Oh! I beg your ladyship's pardon; I really forgot that I was speaking to Miss Saunderson, heiress to the house on the heath, and daughter to the respectable Mrs. Saunderson, commonly called "The Old Witch." I fancied myself addressing a poor dependant, whom I had raised from the lowest grade in society, and gave to her a home in my father's house; and whom, I was so foolish as to suppose, possessed some gratitude for benefits received. I can dispense with your assistance, and your company also. I would advise you to peruse the little fable which we translated some time since, of the peasant and the viper--you need be at no loss where to apply it." "I am no viper, Miss Crosby. What you have done was for your own gratification, unsought by me. You Now, Ama, a few brief lines, and my tale is told.-professed friendship for me; I believed your professions; Mr. Ainsford remained a widower two years, and then again offered me his hand and heart I accepted the of and when you offered to share your home with me, I accepted it, as I supposed it was intended—as your equal in all but wealth. I am no beggar, as you well know. I never knew the want of any thing in my life. Deceived by your show of affection, I never thought that you were but gratifying the whim of a moment or that you but sought a new toy. I am not ungrateful, but I do repent, most sincerely, that I ever left my humble home, and to-morrow I will return to it." “I think you had better; it is certainly the fitter station for you. You will oblige me by returning." The next day Ama returned to her old friend, who received her with open ar.ns, and smiled when she ob 3rved that "her child" had not returned alone. "Who is this who has accompanied you, Ama? Is he a friend of yours? As such, he is welcome to all our humble means can offer. The stranger, apparently to relieve Ama, who seemed painfully embarrassed, answered for her. “My name, madam, is Crosby, nephew of the gentleman in whose house this young lady has been residing." "I see, I see it all. This accounts for their coldness, for their change of behavior towards my darling-they feared that one of their proud race would marry a poor portionless girl. I understand it all." May I then hope that you will not disapprove? I acknowledge my affection for Miss Saunderson-will you sanction it? “Come here, dearest Ama, tell me truly, does your heart answer to the affection you have heard proffered to you do you love this Mr. Crosby?" Again the gentleman interposed. "Madam," said he, "I have before now spoken my hopes to Miss Saunderson, and I have her permission to beg your sanction to my suit." 1 The Mirror. FRANCIS L. HAGADORN, EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR. NEW BRIGHTON, N. Y. APRIL 13, 1839. and Wiley who have just opened a boarding and day attend them. THE NEW YORK ELECTION. 12th 310 230 502 1042 256 925 746 846 2517 426 1098 1035 705 2828 186 15th 917 580 The battle has "come off" at the charter election in the city, and the democrats have swept the board. Ve- 13th ry little betting has been indulged in, as the business of 14th colonization has been so extensively entered into by both parties as to preclude the possibility of establishing any basis for speculation. Every thing has been devoted to action-blind, determined, strenuous action. At the onset, the wise heads of both parties, by a singular coincidence of "honest endeavors" which politicians so love to prate about, at one instant hit upon the ingenious expedient of colonizing, by sending voters from one ward to another in order to carry the Common Council. The consequence of this was that the closely contested wards were over-run with stragglers from every corner of the city, and of both parties. The experience of the few last elections has satisfied many that the charter of the "You have it. I know that Ama would not love un- city should be so amended as to provide for the election worthily. You have my sanction to wed-not Miss of the corporate officers by general ticket. Such a poli- We expect to hear of wondrous slaughter anon. AlSaunderson, but Miss Ainsford-not the poor depend-cy would render it unnecessary to resort to the surrepti-ready the cry of "heads off" rings through the Tament upon your uncle's bounty, but the heiress of wealth | tious business above adverted to, and moreover would reequal to your own-not the daughter of "The Old Witch" but of parents of as high rank and respectability as your own proud relations. Yes, Ama, all I say is We will return to New York once more; I will dwell in the house of my parents, which your happiness will again make pleasant to me. Once more will I believe that the future may offer some consolation for the sorrows of the past. Surely, surely I shall not now be disappointed. I will trust in God that the hope of my declining years be not blighted." sult in the election of corporation officers whose opinions on the currency, the sub-treasury and the United States Bank would never interfere with a correct discharge of their legitimate duties. Even handed justice would then be more generally felt, as the members of the Common Council would not then be deterred therefrom by such ill-natured criminations as now-a-days invariably characterize the testy croakings of the minority, and of course inflame all the resentment and obstinacy of the majority. Under the present system it seems to delight the minority to vote through any extravagant appropriation which LAUNCH.-The United States sloop of war Decatur, two or three of the majority wish to pass, in order to of sixteen guns, was lauched in fine style at the Navy throw the odium of the measure upon "the party in Yard, Brooklyn, last evening, at five o'clock. She glid-power;" and it also seems mightily to elate the majority od gracefully into her destined element, and was greeted whenever an opportunity offers to carry through a poliwith three cheers from the crew of the frigate Hudson, cy in perfect despite and disregard of 'the lamentations' and Hail Columbia' from her band. We rejoice to see of their opponents. Thus, so long as the charter stands the name so justly dear to our country and navy, thus re- as it is, the gladiators of the Common Council will connewed in one of our noble ships of war. We predict tinue to belabor each other, and "the dear people," the that she will always be a favorite with seamen, and ill- "oppressed people," the bamboozled people must pay the betide him who lets her fall an easy prey to the enemy. piper, while the “discriminating public" sit by and grin The law requires that the sloops of war shall be named supinely upon the results of their inanity. At the Noafter towns in the different States. There are six or vember election in 1837, New York gave democratic maeight considerable towns in the western States called jorities in nine of the seventeen wards, but at the same Decatur-therefore Mr. Paulding has shown his taste time elected thirteen whig members of the Assembly.— and good sense in thus paying a compliment to those If these Assemblymen had been elected in the same. patriotic settlers who had adopted the name of the gal-manner as the charter officers (and if the electors had lant naval hero, as well as to the name itself. She is voted only where they had a right to vote) it is very apconstructed on a model furnished by Samuel Hart, Esq. parent that a majority of them would have been chosen principal naval constructor at this station, and will, it is from the party which held a majority of the wards, alnot doubted, prove a fast sailing ship. Her equipments though at the same time the whig majority in the city are all on the most approved plans, combining economy was 2861. If any thing else need be added to prove the with efficiency. Prosperity to the good ship Decatur, insufficiency of the present system, we will remind our wherever destiny may lead her. readers that both in the spring preceding and the spring |