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“THs (8 PRU LIBERTY WHEN FREE-BORN ME

CHARLOTTETOWN, NOVEMBER 30, 1850.

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N—HAVING TO ADVISE THE PUBLIC—MAY SPEAK FREE.”—Mitton’s Euripipes.

Vole 1: No. 86

The Lady’s Choice,

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMEURY.

“ta terme of choice | am not solely led ay nice direction of a maiden’s eyes.”

Merchant of Venice. (Continued from our last.)

The only one of Frank Harcourt’s family with whom I then became ac- quainted, was his cousin Louis Heyward, and, ameng the whole circle of my ac- quaintances, there was no one whom | so cordially disliked. His form was dimin- ative and slightly misshapen, while his face would have been positively ugly, but for the effect of a pair of large, dark, soft eyes which seemed to speak a more flu- ent language than his lips. His manners were cold, quiet and indifferent; he mingled but little in society, and I think ear well-filled library and my musie alone induced him to conquer his reserve suffi- eiently to become one of my habitual visiters, ‘To me he was always polite aad gentlemanly bat nomore. He never fattered—never even commended, though he often looked as if he would have censured, had ha felt himself privileged to dv so, Frank used to take great pains te bring him out into company, (Heaven forgive me if | wrong him in believing new that he wanted him asa foil to his own exceeding beauty,) but, excepting at our house, Louis was rarely seen in society. He had devoted himself to the gospel! ministry, and, In order to support himself independently during the period ef his theological studies, ke had engaged te give instructions in some of the higher branches of education, at one of our prin- cipal schools. In fact Louis Heyward was only a poor etudent, a schoolmaster, —yet he dared to criticise the conduct of the flattered and spoiled Mildred March- mont; and ke alone,—of ail the gifted and the graceful who bowed before her power, —he alone—the deformed, the unlovely— eeemed to despise her influence.”

“Pray how did you discover that he wes actuated by such feelings ? he surely did not venture to disclose them 7”

“ No, Emily; he was usually silent and abstracted in my presence. His relation- ship to Frank placed him at once on a familiar footing in our family, and, we soon became accustomed to his somewhat eccentric manners. When not listening to my harp or piano, he was often occu-

ied with a book, seeming utterly regard- ess of every one around him. But, often, when I have been sitting in the midst of an admiring circle of ‘danglers,’ bestow- ing on one a sinile, on another a sweet @ord, on another a trifling eommand, and, in short, playing off a thousand petty airs which beiles are very apt to practice in order to claim the attentions of all sround them,—I have stolen a glance at that cold, grave countenance, and there has been such severe expression in his speaking eyes,—such a smile of contempt on his vale lip, that { have blushed for my own folly even while I hated the cynic who made me sensible of it. | was con- atantly disputing with him about trifling matters of opinion, and I celighted in uttering beautiful fallacies, which I knew he would contradict. It was a species of giadiatorial game which I enjoyed, be- cause it was new eandexciting. I had been so long accustomed to assent and flattery that it was quite refreshing to meet with something like opposition, which could arouse tbe dormant powers of my wind. ‘The information with which my early reading had stored my memory, ——the quickness of repartee which gene- rally belongs to woman,—the readiness to turn the weapon of the assailant with a shield for our own weakness which is so very feminine a mode of argu:nent,—all

atforded a new gratification to my vanity, and while f heartily disliked the disputant, L yet eagerly sought the dispute, Louis at length discovered my motives for thus seeking to draw hitn into discussions, and, after that, no provocation could induce him to enter into a war of wit with me, In vain [ uttered the most mischievous sophistries,—in vain I goaded him with keen satire; he smiled at my futile at- tempts, as if I were a petted child, but deigned me no reply. It was not until then that [ estimated the treasures of his gifted mind, for when he no longer allowed himself to be drawn from his reserve,—when his fine conversational powers were no longer exerted, I felt | had losta positive enjoyment which when in my possession I had scarcely thought of valuing.

“]T happened one afternoon to be walk- ing on the Battery with two cousins, when we overtook an acquaintance who was unattended except by a young, bro- ther. We immediately joined her, and, with a feeling of gratified vanity, (know- ing that she had once diligently sought to attract Mr. Harcourt,) [ stepped back, and taking the arm ef Leunis, left the lady in uninterrupted possession, for a short time, of ny handsome lover. ‘There was a imean and petty triumph in my heart at which I now biush, and as [ looked up into the face ef my companion, after per- forming the mancvre, I was almost start]- ed at the stern contempt which was visible in his countenance.”

“*Come, Mr. Heyward, do make your- self agreeable for once, I exclaimed, with levity, ‘do tell me you are flattered by my preference of your society.’

“<*T pever utter untruths,’ was the cold reply.

* My first impulse was to withdraw my arm from his, but I restrained inyself, and Rippantly said:

“* You are as complimentary as usual, I perceive.’

** Would you have me to feel fiattered by being made the tool of your vanity, Madam ?’ said he, while his cheek flush- ed and his eye spark!ed ;* do [ not know that you only sought to gratify a mali- cious triumph over your less fortunate rival ?

“A denial rose to my lips, but my conscience forbade me to utter it. I was perfectly silent—yet, perhaps, there was something of penitence in my counten- ance, for he immediately added:

“*Good Heavens! Mildred, — Miss Marchmont, | mean—what capabilities of mind,—what noble characteristics of feel- ing you are daily wasting in society ! How rapidly are the weeds of evil pas- sion springing up amid the rich plants of viriue which are still rooted in your heart! How awful is the responsibility of one so nobly gifted as yourself!”

“* What do you mean, sir 2’ exclaimed I, startled at his earnestness.

“¢ Haye you never read the parable of the unfaithful steward who hid his talents in the earth?’ was his reply: ‘God has given you beauty and mental power, and wealth and influence; yet what is your beauty but a snare?>—What are your talents but instruments to gratify your vanity? Where is your wealth expended if not in ministering to your luxuries: What suffering fellow-being has ever been cheered by your sympathy ?—or what weak and erring mortal has ever been strengthened in duty, or wakened to virtne by your influence ?”

I cannot express how deeply I was shocked and pained at these impressive words. An emotion resembling terror seized me ;-—I was actually alarmed at the picture they abruptly presented to my view, ,

“Louis continued: ‘forgive me, Miss

Marchmont, if | have trespassed beyond the limits of decorum. I speak the lan- guage you are but little accustomed to hear; but my conscience and my heart have long reproached my silence.’

“* You are a severe judge, Mr. Hey- ward,’ said[ with a faint @ttempt to smile ; and just at that moment we were inturrupted by some jesting remarks from the party who preceded us. No opportunity was afforded for renewing our conversation; but as we approached home, Louis Jingered so as to seeure a moment’s time, and said in a low voice:

“*[ will not ask you to forgive my frankness, Miss Marchmont, for something tella me that the time will come when you wil] not resent my apparent rudeness. [ owe to you some of the happiest, and, it may be, some of the saddest moments of my life. Before we part, I would fain awaken you to a sense of your own true value, for amid all the frivolities which now waste your life, I have discovered that you were born for betier ihings.’ As he uttered these words, we found our- selves at my father’s door, and with a cold bow he turned away.

“That night I was engaged to attend a brilliant ball, but my spirits were de- pressed, and my brow clouded by unwont- ed sadness. Whether wheeling in the giddy danee, or gliding with light words and lighter laugh amid the groups of pleasure-seeking guests, still the deep voice of Louis Heyward rung in my ears; and the words ‘you were born for better things,’ seemed written npon every thing that | beheld.

** You are a triste to-night, ma belle,’ said Frank Uarcourt, as he placed me in the carriage to return howe: ‘1 shall be quite jealous of my crooked cousin, if a tele-a-tele with him has such power to dim vour radience.’

“Many a truth is uttered in the lan- guage of mockery. That walk with Louis had become an era in my life. How I longed to weep in solitude! The weariness and satiety which had tong unconsciously possessed me,—the un- satisfied cravings for excitement, which had Jong been my torment, now seemed to me fully explained, Louis Heyward had unfolded to me the truth,—he had revealed the secret of my hidden discon- tent, when he toid me I was born for better things. I had ‘ placed my happiness lower than myself, and therefore did I gather only disappointment and vexation. Why did | not utter these thoughts to my affianced lover? Why did 1] not weep upon his bosom and seek his tender sym- pathy? Beeause I instinetively knew that he would got understand me. ‘The charm which enrobed my idol was already unwinding, and I had learned that there was many subjects on which there could exist‘no congenial sentiments. For. the first time in my life, I began to reflect; and, with reflection, came remorse for wasted time and ill-regulated feelings. Like the peasant girl in the fairy tale, mine eyes had been touched with the ointment of disenchantment, the illusion which had made life seem a scene of perfect beauty and happiness was dispell- ed forever, and I now only beheld a field where thorns grew beneath every flower, and a path where duties were strewn far more thickly than pleasures.

“ A circumstance which soon after oc- eurred confirmed my melancholy impres- sions. Do you remember little Fanny Rivers whom my mother took while yet a ehtld, with the intention of making her my confideatial servant and dressing- maid? She was about my age, and had grown up to be very pretty,—with one of those sweet, innocent, child-like faces, which are always so lovely in woman.

[Soon after your marriage she abruptly

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Re left my service, and much to my regret 5 was unable to obtain any trace of her. At the time of which I have just spoken, however, I received a note from her. She was sick and in distress, and she request- ed from me some pecuniary aid, I did not receive the appeal with indifference, and instead of merely sending her assiet- ance | determined to seek her in person I found her residing with a relative, poor washerwoman, and asI sat by the sick hed of the young invalid, I for the first time beheld, with my own eyes, the actual life of poverty. Hitherto I had been lavish of money in charity, from a thoughtless and selfish wish to avoid the sight of suffering, but now | learned to syinpathise with the poor and unhappy. Poor I’anny was dying with consumption, and daily did I visit her humble apart- ment, led thither as much by my morbid and excited feelings as by my inerest in the failing sufferer. But it was net till she was near her death hour that she revealed to me her painful story. Never shall I forget her simple words:

“*T used to think ma’m that nothing was so desirable as fine clothes, and when I saw you dressed in your beautiful silks and satins, 1 used to cry with envy be- cause | was only a servant. AsI grew elder this wicked feeling inereased, and often when you had gone to a party, I have locked myself in your cressing- room, and put on your laces, and flowers and jewels, just to see Low I should look in such fine dress. | felt very proud when the large glass showed me that I looked just like a lady; but it only made me more envious and unhappy. At last my hour of temptation came. QOne,~— whose name I have sworn never to reveal, —came to me with promises of all that I had so long wanted. He offerad me silk dresses, and plenty of money, and said f should have servants to wait on me if I would only love him. He was so hanéd- some, and he brought me such costly presenis,—he talked to me so sweetly and pitied me so much for being a servant when [ ought to bea lady, that I could not refuse to beiieve him. He told me I should be his wife in the sight of Heaven, and he ridiculed what he called my old- fashioned notions, until] he made me forget the prayers which my poor mother taught me and the Bible which she used torcad to me. IJ was vain and soI[ be- came wicked. [I sold my happiness on earth and my hopes of Heaven hereafter, for the privilege @f wearing fine elothes; for indeed, Miss Mildred, I never was happy after I left your house.’

(To be concluded in our next.) ree eer eee [f you transpose what Indies wear—Vet, *T will plainly show what bad folks are— Vine. Again, if you transpose the same, You'll see an ancient Hebrew name,— Levi. Change it again and it will show What all on earth desire to do, Live. ‘Transnose the Intters yet once more, vara bad men do, you'll then deplore, VIL.

An Unmusican Nientinears.—A New York journal says:—It was the Revd. Mr. Nightingale (the vagabond !— he ought to be throttled) who gave, as @ 4th of July toast, “ Our fire-engines; may ihey be like old maids, ever ready, but never wanted.”

The present Mayor of Southampign— one of the most influential men, if not the most influentia] maw, in the South Hants, (England)}—was 25 years agoa village blacksmith. He now ranks among tus first nobility of that shire.

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