THE LAST SMILE.

BY C. B.

The last smile of Julia Denton, how well remembered! How blest its influence! It is sixteen years since I saw it lighting up her pale features, just before they assumed the fixedness of death. I was then young, thoughtless, worldly. I am now-but by the grace of God I am what I am.

I was the daughter of kind parents, who thought they promoted my happiness by allowing me to indulge my inclination for amusement and display. As their conduct was such as commanded my entire respect, as well as my warmest love, I did not question the propriety of what they did not disapprove. In consequence, the desire for admiration, unchecked by conscience, grew strong within me. In its train came vain thoughts, envyings, jealousies, hypocrisy and strife-sins against which reason and conscience uttered a vain remonstrance.

A young man from the metropolis had become a temporary resident in our village. He dressed expensively, and had that easy assurance which passes for gentility, among those who have seen but little of the polished world. After I had (not altogether acciden tally,) become acquainted with him, his visits became frequent. To this I was by no means indisposed; his manners were so inuch superior to those of the village beaux; and then he was the veritable inhabitant of the city, though whether the inmate of a prison or a palace was to me unknown. I soon saw that he was without mental resources; for when the vocabulary of compliment was exhausted, conversation flagged. A further acquaintance showed me that he had little sensibility of heart and no fixed moral principles. But still, a graceful manner, exclusive attention, and prouse flattery-what will they not do with the female heart that is under the dominion of the love of admiration?

I was even then astonished at myself, that when I clearly saw his shallowness, I could be pleased with his attentions.

I had always been rather intimate with Julia Denton, though she was the opposite of myself in almost every point of character. She was simple in her tastes and manner, the very soul of sincerity and truth. I was fond of her society, save when my ruling passion led me into another sphere. She was almost the only person to whom I thought it necessary to speak good sense, or to make the attempt to do so. There was a period when her occasional society was all that kept my intellect from extinction; so entirely was I given up to a life of show.

She never rebuked me for my folly, not even by implication— unless to treat me as a rational being was to rebuke me. This was to me a matter of wonder, and in my self-accusing moments (for conscience would sometimes do her work) I was disposed to

blame her that she did not reprove me for my course. But she pursued a wiser plan. She knew that the vain mind can ill brook reproof. She strove to exercise the feeble taste within me for the beautiful and the good, to awaken my capacities for thinking, in the hope that the nobler parts of my nature might assert their rights. After my intimacy with the city beau, as he was called, many of my acquaintances became cool towards me. This I attributed to envy, and the gratification of my vanity gave me greater pleasure than the loss of their society gave me pain. But among this number was Julia Denton. It was impossible to attribute this motive to her. I knew she could only pity and despise my captive. I knew that in her there was no caprice; that for her conduct there was a cause. It led me to suspect that there was something in my conduct or position, further from the rule of right than I had supposed. I was brought to pause, to reflect, and almost to reform.

I had resolved to break with the city beau; that is, to treat him in such a manner as would put an end to his attentions. While I was strengthening this resolution, for the sight of a new dress just sent home, rendered this operation necessary, I saw the object of my thoughts and resolutions passing with Miss Calvert on his arm. She was receiving those attentions which I had determined to reject - why was I displeased? Because I had not yet rejected them, and Miss Calvert was a sort of rival. There existed between us a tacit dislike, founded on similarity of charac ter and pursuits. It only led us to treat each other with scrupulous politeness, and carefully to avoid all palpable occasions of offence. Weak as was my captive, he could read my weakness in regard to her, and I thought he never talked so well as when she was the subject of his critical remarks. The look she gave me as they passed my window, drove all my serious thoughts from my mind. My discarding of Mr. S. must be postponed till he was brought back to my allegiance, and Miss C. punished for her presumption.

This trifling incident, in its action on the giant passion I had nourished, caused me years of sorrow. Had I kept my resolution to withdraw from his society, had I gone, as I proposed, to Julia, and confessed my folly, and asked her counsel and aid, I should have escaped long years of heartlessness and pain.

There was another for whose good opinion I had no less regard than for Julia's. He was a young man devoted to the profession of the law. Mr. B. was seldom seen in society. He was plain and unstudied in his manner. There was nothing about him to attract attention, but the brightness of his deep-set eye, and the truth and point of his few remarks. I met him one evening in company with Julia; I saw by his manner that he was surprised that she should address me as an intelligent being, and that I should answer. He addressed me with a respect that I felt was worth more than volumes of flattery. From that time I felt a re

straint in company where he was present, The incense of flattery was desired, but it was not then pleasant. When alone with him I could lay aside acting, and be unconstrained and happy. How far my acquaintance with him influenced my resolution to reform, and to place myself under the guidance of Julia, I do not know; it had an influence.

But my rival was first to be humbled. Time and thought were necessary to settle the plan. Time and thought were bestowed. I will not describe the details. It was zealously pursued. In its progress, I could see that Julia could scarce conceal her disapprobation, not to say disgust. I saw the pain it gave to Mr. B. It gave me joy, for it assured me of an interest that I was resolved to cherish; and thus while I was driving his thoughts away from me, I was suffering my affections to flow out towards him. He became cold and reserved, but I was confident that I could recover him, as soon as my present object was attained. It was attained. Mr. S. was brought back and discarded. My rival was humbled. The only persons whose good opinion I desired were alienated for a lifetime. Mr. B. was not like those I had previously dealt with. I could not even attempt to influence him. I was rebuked by the thought.

I was now regarded as a heartless coquette, as capable of nothing higher than selfish amusement. My perverse pride led me to resolve to act up to my reputation. I succeeded. But ah, the waste of feeling unemployed; the yearning of the heart for sympathy; the chilling sense of the folly and worthlessness of all that I had or was; the hopeless prospect before me! Up to this time, I had cherished in my heart of hearts, aspirations for higher things. Now the dreams of my heart were relinquished; I felt that I had sold my birthright for a vain show. I had chosen the portion of my cup, and the waters of bitterness were poured out to

me.

Julia Denton was civil, but cold. There was nothing to encourage me to unburthen my pressed heart, and to implore assistance. B. met me not with coldness, but as if we had never interchanged a thought. I saw him lead to the altar the gentle, truehearted Mary Green; and I felt that I deserved to be wretched and lonely. But pride clothed my countenance with smiles, and led me to assume the air of light-hearted gayety.

At length Julia was taken very ill. I went and offered to nurse her. My offer was declined by her friends. I knew they wished for a more serious and tender nurse; but I insisted, and was at

length permitted to occupy her sick room. It was the gay season, but I scarcely left that sick room for a moment by night or day. I hardly knew why I made the offer-why I devoted myself thus. I felt that I must do it. She soon became too ill to know me; I felt that she would die; I felt as though all my hopes would die with her. Hitherto there was nothing definite in my views and feelings. All was vague and undefined. But one night as I sat

alone by her bedside, the sinful character of the past was revealed to me. I had long felt that it was foolish, heartless, and in general wrong. Now I saw and felt its exceeding sinfulness. What should I do? The only friend to whom I could go for counsel would never speak again. Heavier and heavier pressed the burden of guilt; darker and darker the cloud that rested on the future. I was on the border of despair.

Julia awoke from a long stupor. There was intelligence in her clear, though languid eye. She knew me, and a faint smile appeared. "Oh, what shall I do to be saved?" burst from my lips. I thought not of her inability to answer-I saw she could understand. Her eye was fixed upon me inquiringly for an instant, she seemed to comprehend my feelings. A heavenly smile spread over her countenance, and she turned her eyes upward, as though she would direct my attention there. In a moment her countenance became fixed, her eye glared in death.

That smile rescued me from despair and lighted up a ray of hope in my dark soul. I sought aid from above. I searched Julia's Bible, and found rest to my soul.

THE ENGELSWIESE.

BY ELIZABETH G. BARBER.

Closed in by shadowy woods of green
The Angel's Meadow sleeping lies,
Kissed by the summer breeze serene,
And canopied by smiling skies.
Old Heidelberg uprears below

Its ancient towers, its walls of grey,
And past them all, with chiming flow,
The silvery Neckar winds its way.

If o'er Grenada's domes of old,

Heaven's brightest skies of blue were hung,

As Moorish legends, oft have told,

And troubadours, in ballads sung,

Methinks that heavens, as bright and clear
As was the Orient's cloudless sky,

Sweet Angel's Meadow! hover here
And o'er thy haunts of beauty lie.

Oh loveliest spot of Fatherland!

Its sunniest nooks around thee lie,
And frowning tower and castle stand
Their turrets rearing proud and high,
And hill and plain, spread far away

Where bright streams flow, with ceaseless chime,
And mouldering arch, and ruins grey,

All linked with tales of olden time.

The ancient castle, stern and dark,
Whose frowning towers, by ruin bowed,
Time's flight and devastation mark,

And Otto Heinrich's palace proud,
This, even in decay, sublime

With arabesques, and sculpture rare,
Though the corroding touch of Time,
Has left a deeper impress there.

Beyond, fair plains and valleys sleep,
The Pfalz, closed in by hills of green,
The Odenwald's recesses deep,

Where sunlight steals their shades between,
And far beyond the sunny plain

Where the blue Rhine's wild waters lie,

And centuries ago, the train

Of Crusaders swept proudly by.

Oh I could wing, with Fancy's flight,

My heart to thee, in spring's sweet prime,
Fair Angel's Meadow, when the light

Of sunset woos the vesper chime,
Which pealing from the city towers,

By distance mellowed, charms the air,
While winds that kiss the half shut flowers,
Sweet fragrance on their pinions bear.

I'd fancy in the holy night,

When starbeams sleep on land and sea,

That angels, by that peaceful light,

Roved through thy greenwood bowers with me,

When pale Forget-me-nots look up

To smiling heavens with tearful eyes,

And in each violet's azure cup

A star within a dew drop lies.

If angel spirits e'er forgot

For earth, yon radiant bowers of bliss,

I ween they found no lovelier spot

Amid its sunniest nooks than this.

And if on earth they yet may dwell,

The pilgrim's path through life to cheer,

To mortal eyes invisible,

Their holy presence lingers here.

New Haven, Nov., 1847.