his adversary burst from his tortured soul, and he eagerly grasps at the hope that his second may yet prevent blood.

The situation of Spiffard was not similar to this. He thought himself the injured party, but did not wish revenge for the injury. He was convinced that in repressing insult, he had done his duty as a man and a husband. He had agreed to meet Captain Smith at the suggestion of his companions, whose good opinion he did not wish to lose, and of whose good faith he had no doubt; but he went to the meeting neither to apologise nor fight, but to show his supposed adversary that there was no call for either. Now, however his situation was changed, and he was called upon to place himself at the disposal of Mr. Allen, of whom he knew little, and of a Mr. Beaglehole, of whom he knew nothing. He hesitated as to the course he should ultimately pursue. Uncertainty, wavering, and irresolution, had taken possession of his mind. He was sick at heart. His moments of self-approbation were few and far between. As the progress of this hoax went on, Spiffard became discontented, peevish, and a feeling approaching to loathing of himself and all around him weighed upon his spirit and withered his strength. His natural paleness was increased to a corpse-like livid hue. His eyes lost their fire, his lips their colour, and his muscles their elasticity.

How little did the gay young men who produced this misery appreciate the pain their sport inflicted! Did they wish to inflict pain? Certainly not. The whole plot was the result of overflowing animal spirits, kept in perpetual ferment by the incessant recurrence of the feast and the stimulants accompanying it. The hot blood of youth pouring fire---adding fuel to the already overheated furnace. There is a mist which appetite raises to cloud reason, and to this the fumes of the " sparkling glass"-the all-destroying alcohol-were (in those days) habitually added, so that the minds of some were always enveloped in a many-coloured cloud, sometimes bright as if illumined by a thousand suns; sometimes dark as night; but ever falseever leading to misapprehensions and endless error.

The injury unintentionally inflicted on Spiffard, was shared by his wife. Her own errors rendered her peculiarly obnoxious to suspicion. The husband was silent, or peevish. The question, "What's the matter, Mr. Spiffard?" was answered laconically by "Nothing." But this word was accompanied by looks that spoke volumes to the unfortunate woman, yet left her in suspense. Sometimes the question was put, "What is the matter, Mr. Spiffard?" and the answer was even more

unsatisfactory, though the word was still "Nothing." But I am anticipating.

Spiffard could neither eat his breakfast nor remain at home, in the state of mind which the renewal of the affair of Captain John Smith produced. After the ceremony of the morning meal was over, he went in search of Allen.

He met Henry Johnson, (no longer the watchman), and passed him with a friendly salutation, and "The ladies will be glad to see you.”

Henry, (after certain arrangements with his mother, and the necessary attentions to his appearance), hastened to impart to Emma Portland the tidings which imported change so great to her. Emma had left him poor; he was now blessed by competence. She had made a discovery, which, although redounding to his honour, pained her, as it seemed like a want of confidence in her; something approaching to falsehood in him.

The two couples which the thread of our story brings us to consider under the same point of view, were strangely contrasted. They were alike as being young; for still Mr. and Mrs. Spiffard were in the prime of life. They were alike in being blest by nature with physical and mental powers. In what then consisted the contrast? The one pair was miserable, the other happy. What the cause? Early education and early associates. Johnson and Spiffard were both moral men; but the first had been strictly trained; and the path of life pointed out by a pure and religious parent. The second was left to the guidance of his blind fancy, and misled by one who had been selected for his guide. Henry had chosen a partner in the house of God, from among those who were teaching the orphan, and the abandoned of earth, to seek heaven. Spiffard had selected from among those who delight the mingled throng who seek pleasure more than improvement.

The interview which took place on the present occasion, was of great interest to Henry Johnson and Emma Portland: but as I am aware that such scenes are not of the most fascinating kind to the general reader, I shall leave the imagination of my admirers to supply the terms in which the young man made many explanations, and informed the lovely girl of those discoveries which led to the unravelment of the intricacies which were gathering around Mr. Littlejohn and himself. But we must take a peep at the scene of happiness, notwithstanding.

He found Emma alone. That was just as it should be. For a short time he was embarrassed, and she was thoughtful. He

considered her as an incarnation of truth. She was so; and like Milton's Truth, "an immortal feature of loveliness and perfection." And Henry, in the spirit of truth, sought to explain any appearance that might offend her purity.

"I am delighted to find that the exposure to the storm of last night, has not made you sick, Emma. And yet you do not appear as cheerful as usual."

"I do not think that my health has suffered. The cold was great, but I was well guarded, and the snow was dry.”

"But your eyes do not sparkle as they were wont."

"Perhaps they want sleep; but no, I slept very soundly, and later than I commonly do. Henry, it was a night of wonders."

"Wonders, indeed!"

"And you do not know that I came from a death-bed before I saw you; and a sudden and unexpected death, although one serene and prepared for. When I awoke this morning, I could not but think I had been dreaming. The situation in which I found Mr. Cooke—and, Henry, the situation in which I found you. The dying woman-the storm-the old man lying helpless, and perishing with cold-the watch-house-and the watchman, Henry! I would as little expect to find Henry Johnson in such a dress, and with such companions, and in such a place, as to find Mr. Cooke perishing in the street in a snow-storm.'

"I can explain to your satisfaction, Emma.”

"Had I not a right to expect confidence from one, to one who has confided in him most implicitly?"

"You had."

"I will not hide a thought from you, Henry. Meeting you, as I did, when I little expected to meet any one whom I had even seen, and when I trusted for the success of my mission upon the common dictates of duty alone, was little short of a miracle. At the time, it was a source of unmingled joy ; but since, I have thought upon it with sorrow. With all my confidence in your purity and honour, I have not yet been reconciled to finding you so disguised, and so associated."

"For my mother, Emma! for my angelic mother! For her who has toiled and suffered, that I might be instructed, and made useful in society. You know what my expectations were; and that I toiled at the desk all day, to be prepared, at an approaching period, for a lucrative employment. In the mean time, my mother was rendered incapable of exertion. I did not tell you how very poor we were. I thought, for the short time of

my probation, I would watch during the night, as well as work through the day, and when my promised salary commenced, then resign the pittance, which has been, for some time, my mother's support. Thus my days were occupied in labour for future comfort, and my nights for the present means of subsistance."

Emma gave him her hand, and her eyes filled with tears.

"But, Henry, did you think I could not appreciate such motives? Why not confide your necessities and your plans to me?"

"My reasons may not appear sufficient to you, although they were so to me. I thought that you might suppose the hardships and exposures I should encounter, greater than they really are; and therefore that the knowledge of this mode of relieving my mother's wants, by depriving myself of rest, would cause unnecessary anxiety to you. You must forgive me. It was with difficulty that I persuaded my mother to be reconciled to the temporary resource, (for it was only to last a few weeks ;) and I was, perhaps, vain enough to think it might be as difficult to obtain your approbation, and might cause unnecessary pain."

There was a pressure of the hand, and a smile through tears, that spoke perfect forgiveness. Never do the rays of the sun appear more beautiful, than when they are seen through the mild, refreshing showers of summer, giving promise of a goodly time to come. Such a smile was an assurance of future happiness to Henry Johnson.

"And now, Henry, I do believe that the watchman who twice followed me, was the same that assisted me last night." "You may believe it."

"Even yet I cannot be reconciled to a disguise."

"The dress was not put on as a disguise. I put on the habit with the employment. I obtained the employment by the recommendation of a neighbour, who had himself served as such, but was disqualified by infirmity. I told no untruths. My name and my motives were known to my companions." "But such companions!"

"Do not misconceive of them. Do not, because European books describe the watchman as a rogue or a fool, therefore suppose the useful guardians of our cities to be such. They are honest, industrious mechanics, and as well informed, on all subjects, as men who gain their bread by the labour of their hands can be. They have appreciated my superior education, as, by degrees, they discovered that I possessed that advan

tage. I have been of service to such of them as imagined ardent spirits of use to them in times of exposure, by convincing them of the contrary. Most of them have been apprised of my motives for putting on the garb, and sharing the hardships of the band; and they have given them their due weight. But Emma, neither they, nor you, nor I, have known who I am."

"We do not know ourselves to be sure. Who does? I do not know myself; but I thought that, perhaps, I knew you better than you knew yourself. I had my doubts, last night." "I do not mean that self-knowledge."

"What then?"

"The discoveries of this morning are even more extraordinary than those of last night."

"Of this morning."

"After you left my mother, and even after the storm had past, and the sun had risen."

"They must be strange discoveries, indeed, if more strange than I made. For I last night discovered, in a poor, perishing outcast, dying on a snow-heap, the idolized George Frederick Cooke; and in the sober, industrious, moral Henry Johnson, a tenant of the watch-house."

"And I saw Emma Portland in charge of a watchman, and ushered, at midnight, to the cognizance of the captain of the watch. But the discovery that followed, and which I am to impart to you, affects us both most seriously."

The playfulness of Emma gave place to anxiety; her smiles to an expression of fear.

"While we are conscious of our good intentions, Henry—" "I have no disclosure to make that can injure me in your opinion. But I at length know my father."

"And living?"

"Living. His life saved by you." "Mr. Cooke ?"

"Is my father, Emma. My unworthy father."

"Owing his life to his son!

"No. Nor shall he ever."

"And your mother?"

Does he know you?"

"She shall remain unknown to her unworthy husband. He supposes her dead. Let him suppose so.

"That might disturb his last hours, Henry.

give. Your mother-?"

We must for

"I shall obey my mother. You must see her, and speak on the subject; and on another, if possible, more near to us, but of a very different character."