hand, and kissed it, saying, “Good morning, my dear father; I hope you do not repent of your kindness to me yesterday?"

"No, no; God bless you, boy. I've been thinking of you all night."

"All's right," thought I; "and I trust to be able to keep it so."

I shall pass over a fortnight, during which I was in constant attendance upon my father. At times he would fly out in a most violent manner, but I invariably kept my temper, and when it was all over, would laugh at him, generally repeating and acting all which he had said and done during his paroxysm. I found this rather dangerous ground at first, but by degrees he became used to it, and it was wonderful how it acted as a check upon him. He would not at first believe but that I exaggerated when the picture was held up to his view and he was again calm. My father was not naturally a badtempered man, but having been living among a servile race, and holding high command in the army, he had gradually acquired a habit of authority and an impatience of contradiction which was unbearable to all around. Those who were high-spirited and sensitive shunned him; the servile and the base continued with him for their own interests, but trembled at his wrath. I had during the time narrated to my father the events of my life, and, I am happy to say, had, by attention and kindness joined with firmness and good temper, acquired a dominion over him. I had at his request removed to the hotel, and lived with him altogether. His leg was rapidly arriving at a state of convalescence, and he now talked of taking a house and setting up his establishment in London. I had seen but little of Mr. Masterton during this time, as I had remained in doors in attendance upon the general. I had written once to Mr. Cophagus, stating how I was occupied, but saying nothing about our reconciliation. One morning Mr. Masterton called upon us, and after a little conversation with the general, he told me that he had persuaded Mr. Cophagus to leave Reading and come to London, and that Susannah Temple was to come with them.

"On a visit ?" inquired I.

"No, not on a visit. I have seen Cophagus, and he is determined to cut the Quakers, and reside in London altogether."

"What! does he intend to return to the pomps and vanities of this wicked world?"

"Yes, I believe so, and his wife will join him. She has no objection to decorate her pretty person."

"I never thought that she had-but Susannah Temple—”

"When Susannah is away from her friends, when she finds that her sister and brother-in-law no longer wear the dress, and when she is constantly in your company, to all which please to add the effect I trust of my serious admonitions, she will soon do as others do, or she is no woman. This is all my plan, and leave it to me-only play your part by seeing as much of her as you can.

"You need not fear that," replied I.

"Does your father know of your attachment?" inquired Mr. Masterton.

"No, I passed her over without mentioning her name," replied I.

"It is too soon yet to talk to him about my marrying; in fact, the proposal must, if possible, come from him. Could not you manage that?"

"Yes, I will if I can; but, as you say, wait awhile. Here is their address—you must call to-morrow, if you can; and do you think you can dine with me on Thursday?"

"Yes, if the general continues improving; if not I will send you word."

The next day I complained of a head-ache, and said, that I would walk out until dinner-time. I hastened to the address given me by Mr. Masterton, and found that Mr. Cophagus and his wife were out, but Susannah remained at home. After our first questions, I inquired of her how she liked London.

"I am almost afraid to say, Japhet, at least to you; you would only laugh at me."

"Not so, Susannah; I never laugh when I know people are sincere."

"It appears, then, to me to be a vanity fair."

"That there is more vanity in London than in any other city, I grant," replied I; "but recollect, that there are more people and more wealth. I do not think that there is more in proportion than in other towns in England, and if there is more vanity, Susannah, recollect also that there is more industry, more talent, and I should hope a greater proportion of good and honest people among its multitudes; there is also, unfortunately, more misery and more crime."

"I believe you are right, Japhet. Are you aware that Mr. Cophagus has put off his plain attire?"

"If it grieves you, Susannah, it grieves me also; but I presume he finds it necessary not to be so remarkable."

"For him I could find some excuse; but what will you say, Japhet, when I tell you that my own sister, born and bred up to our tenets, hath also much deviated from the dress of the females of our sect?" "In what hath she made an alteration ?"

"She has a bonnet of plaited straw with ribbons."

"Of what colour are the ribbons?"

Nay, of the same as her dress-of grey."

"Your bonnet, Susannah, is of grey silk; I do not see that there is vanity in descending to straw, which is a more homely commodity. But what reason has she given ?"

"That her husband wills it, as he does not like to walk out with her in her Quaker's dress."

"Is it not her duty to obey her husband, even as I obey my father, Susannah ?-but I am not ashamed to walk out with you in your dress; so if you have no objection, let me show you a part of this

great city."

Susannah consented: we had often walked together in the town of Reading: she was evidently pleased at what I said. I soon escorted her to Oxford Street, from thence down Bond Street and all the most frequented parts of the metropolis. The dress naturally drew upon her the casual glance of the passengers, but her extreme beauty turned the glance to an ardent gaze, and long before we had finished our intended walk, Susannah requested that I would go home. She

was not only annoyed but almost alarmed at the constant and reiterated scrutiny which she underwent, ascribing it to her dress and not to her lovely person. As soon as we returned I sat down with her. "So I understand that Mr. Cophagus intends to reside altogether

in London."

"I have not heard so; I understood that it was business which called him hither for a few weeks. I trust not, for I shall be unhappy here."

"The people are rude-it is not agreeable to walk out."

"Recollect, my dear Susannah, that those of your sect are not so plentiful in London as elsewhere, and if you wear a dress so different from other people, you must expect that curiosity will be excited. You cannot blame them-it is you who make yourself conspicuous, almost saying to the people by your garment, Come, and look at me.' I have been reflecting upon what Mr. Masterton said to you at Reading, and I do not know whether he was not right in calling it a garb of pride instead of a garb of humility."

"If I thought so, Japhet, even I would throw it off," replied Susannah.

"It certainly is not pleasant that every one should think that you walk out on purpose to be stared at, yet such is the ill-natured construction of the world, and they will never believe otherwise. It is possible, I should think, to dress with equal simplicity and neatness, to avoid gay colours, and yet to dress so as not to excite observation." "I hardly know what to say; but that you all appear against me, and that sometimes I feel that I am too presumptuous in thus judging for myself."

"I am not against you, Susannah; I know you will do what you think is right, and I shall respect you for that, even if I disagree with you; but I must say, that if my wife were to dress in such a way as to attract the public gaze, I should feel too jealous to approve of it. I do not, therefore, blame Mr. Cophagus for inducing his pretty wife to make some alteration in her attire, neither do I blame but I commend her for obeying the wishes of her husband. Her beauty is his, and not common property."

Susannah did not reply; she appeared very thoughtful. "You disagree with me, Susannah," said I, after a pause, sorry for it."

"I am

"I cannot say that I do, Japhet; I have learnt a lesson this day, and in future I must think more humbly of myself, and be more ruled by the opinions and judgments of others."

Mr. and Mrs. Cophagus then came in. Cophagus had resumed his coat and waistcoat, but not his pantaloons or Hessians: his wife, who had a very good taste in dress, would not allow him. She was in her grey silk gown, but wore a large handsome shawl, which covered all but the skirts; on her head she had a Leghorn bonnet, and certainly looked very pretty. As usual, she was all good-humour and smiles. I told them that we had been walking out, and that Susannah had been much annoyed by the staring of the people.

"Always so," said Cophagus, "never mind-girls like it-feel pleased and so on."

"You wrong me much, brother Cophagus," replied Susannah, “it pained me exceedingly."

"All very well to say so-know better-sly puss—will wear dress -people say, pretty Quaker-and so on."

Susannah hastily left the room after this attack, and I told them what had passed.

"Mrs. Cophagus,” said I, "order a bonnet and shawl like yours for her without telling her, and perhaps you will persuade her to put it on."

Mrs. Cophagus thought the idea excellent, and promised to procure them. Susannah not making her re-appearance, I took leave and arrived at the hotel in good time for dinner.

"Japhet," said the general to me as we were at table, "you have mentioned Lord Windermear very often, have you called upon him lately?"

"No, sir, it is now two years and more since I have seen him. When I was summoned to town to meet you, I was too much agitated to think of any thing else, and since that I have had too much pleasure in your company."

"Say rather, my good boy, that you have nursed me so carefully that you have neglected your friends and your health. Take my carriage to-morrow, and call upon him, and, after that, you had better drive about a little, for you have been looking pale these last few days. I hope to get out myself in a short time, and then we will have plenty of amusement together in setting up our establishment."

(To be continued.)

THE CHAMBER OF DEATH!

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

OH! the stillness and the gloom
Of the chamber of the dead!
Where the flowers that gaily bloom,
And the light by tapers shed,
Mock the faded form of clay,

And the darkness of those eyes,
Whence the soul hath past away,
As a vapour, to the skies.

Oh! the sadness and the chill

Of the living, as they wend

To the chamber, shrining still
The relics of a friend;

When with noiseless step, as though

The dead were but asleep,

To the solemn bed they go,

O'er the senseless one to weep.

Oh! the paleness of the cheek,

In its shroud of deadly white,
And the moveless lips, that speak
With a holy prophet's might;
And the hands so still and cold,
With a decent grace array'd,
Whose sponsal gloves enfold
The bride that death has made.

Oh! the glitter and the gloom
Of the coffin, as it stands
In the closely-curtained room;
'Till the priest in holy bands
Shall usher it the way,

And, with blessed words of grace,
Embalm the shrouded clay

For its narrow dwelling-place.

Oh! the pang to loving friends!
When the bearers of the dead
To that darkened room ascend,
Whence th' immortal spirit fled!
As they hear the solemn sound
Of the heavy feet above,
How freshly bleeds the wound
In the pierc'd heart of love!

Oh! the pageantry of woe!

When the hearse with nodding plumes,

And the mantled mourners go

On their pathway to the tombs:

When the snowy 'kerchief drowns
The sobbings of despair,

And the holy church-bell sounds

From the Sabbath-house of prayer.

Oh! the grief of friends that meet,
When the burial rite is past,
Full fondly to repeat,

While their tears are dropping fast,
The virtues of the dead,

And rehearse the dying scene ;Such things, and such, she said, Then pause-and weep between.

Oh! the wildness of regret

For the loved one past away,
When the golden sun has set
Of that ever-living day;
And the first night closes o'er
The friend within the tomb,
Whose voice shall sound no more
"Till nature's day of doom.