¹ Some months ago a number of the “Richmond Enquirer,” containing an argument in favor of the mandatory right of a State Legislature to instruct a Senator of the United States, was forwarded to the author of this article. That argument was supported by the alleged opinions of Messrs. King, Jay and Hamilton, as expressed in the Convention of New York—and we think this reply well deserves publication. It is from the pen of a ripe scholar and a profound jurist.

The receipt of your letter afforded me much pleasure, not only on account of the interesting subject it treats of, but as a gratifying evidence of your remembrance of me. I fear, however, that you will have reason to repent of your kindness, as I shall presume upon it to task your patience with some observations in defence of my old federal notions upon your doctrine of instructions. I will endeavor to show that the extracts made in the Enquirer from the speeches of Messrs. King, Jay and Hamilton, in the New York Convention, do not sustain (even if we are to take the report of them to be verbally correct) the doctrine or right as it is contended for in Virginia. I understand that doctrine to be, that the instructions of a State Legislature to a Senator of the United States, are an authoritative, constitutional, lawful command, which he is bound implicitly to obey, and which he cannot disobey without a violation of his official duty as a Senator, imposing upon him the obligation to resign his place if he cannot, or will not, conform to the will of his Legislature. I confess that this doctrine appears to me to be absolutely incompatible with the cardinal principles of our Constitution, as a representative government; to break up the foundations which were intended to give it strength and stability, and to impart to it a consistent, uniform and harmonious action; and, virtually, to bring us back to a simple, turbulent democracy, the worst of all governments—or rather, no government at all. I do not mean to enter upon the broad ground of argument of this question, with which you are so well acquainted, but to examine, as briefly as I can, but probably not so much so as your patience would require, the federal authorities which the writer in the Enquirer believes he has brought to the support of his opinions.

I cannot put out of the discussion, although I will not insist upon, the objection to the authority of the reports of the speeches alluded to, especially when it turns upon a question of extreme accuracy in the use of certain precise words and phrases, any departure from which would materially affect the sense of the speaker. We see daily in the reports of congressional debates, the most important mistakes or misrepresentations, unintentionally made, not of expressions merely, but of the very substance and meaning of the speakers; sometimes reporting the very reverse of what they actually said. I have occasion to know the carelessness with which these reports are frequently made, and, indeed, the impossibility of making them with accuracy. What a man writes he must abide by, in its fair and legitimate meaning; but what another writes for him, however honest in the intention, cannot be so strictly imputed to him. There is also an objection to extracts, even truly recited, inasmuch as they are often qualified or modified by other parts of the writing or speech. As I have not, immediately at hand, the debates of the New York Convention, I am unable, just now, to see how far this may have been the case in the speeches from which the quotations are made. I must, therefore, at present, be content to take them as they are given in the Enquirer, and even then it appears to me that they are far from covering the Virginia doctrine of instructions. Let us see. Mr. King is represented to have said, that “the Senators will have a powerful check in those who wish for their seats.” This is most true—and in fact it is to this struggle for place that we owe much of the zeal for doctrines calculated to create vacancies. Mr. King proceeds—“And the State Legislatures, if they find their delegates erring, can and will instruct them. Will this be no check?” The two checks proposed, in the same sentence and put upon the same footing, are the vigilance of those who want the places of the Senators, and the instructions which the State Legislatures can and will give to them. They are said to be, as they truly are, powerful checks, operating with a strong influence on the will and discretion of the Senator, but not as subjecting him, as a matter of duty, either to the reproaches of his rivals or the opinions of the Legislature. To do this, a check must be something more than powerful; it must be irresistible, or, at least, attended by some means of carrying it out to submission—some penalty or remedy for disobedience. I consider the term instruct, as here used, to mean no more than counsel, advise, recommend—because Mr. King does not intimate that any right or power is vested in the Legislature to compel obedience to their instructions, or to punish a refractory Senator as an official delinquent. It is left to his option to obey or not, which is altogether inconsistent with every idea of a right to command. Such a right is at once met and nullified by a right to refuse. They are equal and contrary rights. As we are upon a question of verbal criticism, and it is so treated in the Enquirer, we may look for information to our dictionaries. To instruct, in its primitive or most appropriate meaning, is simply to teach—and instruction is the act of teaching, or information. It is true that Johnson gives, as a more remote meaning, “to inform authoritatively.” Certainly, the Legislature may instruct, may teach, may inform a Senator, and whenever they do so it will be with no small degree of authority from the relation in which they stand to each other; but the great question is, not whether this would be an impertinent or improper interference on the part of the Legislature, but whether the Senator is bound, by his official oath or duty, implicitly to obey such instructions; whether he violates a duty he ought to observe, or usurps a power which does not belong to him, if he declines to submit to these directions, if he cannot receive the lesson thus taught, or adopt the information thus imparted to him. Does the spirit of our Constitution (for clearly in terms it does not) intend to make a Senator of the United States a mere passive instrument or agent in the hands of a State Legislature. Is he required by any legal or moral duty or obligation, to surrender into the hands of any man or body of men, his honest judgment and conscientious convictions of right? To act on their dictation and his own responsibility; responsible to his country for the consequences of his vote, and to his own conscience and his God for the disregard of his oath of office, which bound him to support that Constitution which his instructions may call upon him to violate, as he conscientiously believes. It will be a miserable apology for him to say, that he has done this because he was so ordered by a body of men, who may have thought or cared very little about it, and may hold a different opinion the next year without remorse or responsibility. But if he cannot obey, must he save his conscience by resigning his seat? This is the most unsound and untenable of all the grounds assumed in this discussion. If it is the official duty of the Senator to do and perform the will of his constituents, or rather of those who gave him his office, then he violates or evades that duty by resigning; and he may, in this way, not only abandon his duty, but as effectually defeat the will and intention of his Legislature as by actually voting against it. To return to Mr. King—how does he propose or expect that this check of legislative instructions is to act upon the Senator? What is the nature of the obligation he considers to rest upon the Senator to obey them? He does not pretend that there is any power in the Legislature to enforce their instructions or cause them to be respected. He does not suggest that disobedience is a violation of duty on the part of the Senator, or the assumption of any right that does not practically and constitutionally belong to him; that he falls under any just odium or reproach, if after an honest and respectful consideration of the instructions, he shall believe it to be his duty to disregard them. Mr. King does not, by the most remote implication, intimate, that a State Legislature may, through the medium of instructions, directly or indirectly, put a limitation on the term of service of a Senator, which they will do if it is his duty to resign whenever they shall choose to require of him to do what, as an honest man, a good citizen, and faithful officer, he cannot do. If instructions have the authority contended for, there is no exception; it is a perfect right or it is no right. The Senator cannot withdraw himself from it, however imperious the requisition may be, or however iniquitous the design in making it. The Senator has a discretion to judge of it in all cases or in no case. He may take counsel of his own conscience and judgment in every call upon him—or in none. The check that Mr. King promises from the State Legislatures upon their Senators, is nothing more than the natural influence they will have upon the minds and conduct of the Senators, and this, in my apprehension, is more likely to be too much than too little. What does Mr. K. say will be the consequence of a refusal on the part of a Senator to obey? Not that he is corrupt—or unfaithful—or ought to resign—but simply that they will be “hardy men.” Assuredly they will be so; I wish we had more of these hardy men, for certainly there are occasions on which public men, holding the destinies of their country in their hands, ought to be hardy, and must be so in opposition to the apparent and immediate, but transient, will of the people; and it is such hardy men who have deserved and received the gratitude and thanks of the people they saved by opposing them. The brightest names on the pages of history are those of such hardy men. The same answer meets the commentary on the word “dictating”—used, or said to be used, by Mr. King.

I would here make a remark upon this report of Mr. King's speech, which shows how carelessly the report was made, or how loose Mr. King was in his choice of words. In the beginning of the passage quoted, he refers to the State Legislatures, as the bodies who are to check, by their instructions, the wanderings of the Senators. In the conclusion he is made to say—“When they (the Senators) hear the voice of the people dictating to them their duty,” &c. Now, it can hardly be pretended that the Legislature and the people are identically the same; or that a vote of the Legislature by a majority of one—or by any majority, can always be said to be the voice of the people. It is as probable that they may misrepresent the people, as that the Senators should misrepresent them. It is not uncommon for the people to repudiate the acts of their Legislature. It was understood to be so in Virginia, on the late question on the conduct of her Senators. The solemn and deliberate opinion upon any subject, of the body from which an officer derives his appointment, will always be received with great respect, as coming from a high source and with much authority, but the Senator, acting on the responsibility he owes to the whole country, must take into his view of the case the effect of his instructions upon the whole; he must not shut his eyes from examining the occasion which produced the instructions—the circumstances attending them—the means by which they were obtained—the errors, or passions, or prejudices which may have influenced and deceived those who voted for them; in short, he must carefully and conscientiously examine the whole ground, and finally decide for himself on the double responsibility he owes to his own State and to the United States; to those who appointed him to office and to himself, and his own character. There is no doubt that this examination will be made with a disposition sufficiently inclined to conform himself to the wishes of his constituents.

Mr. Jay expressed himself with more discrimination and caution than Mr. King; and no inference can be drawn from what he says, that there is any right or power in a State Legislature to demand obedience or resignation from a Senator, to their instructions. He considers their instructions to be, what in truth and practice they have always been, nothing more than advice or information coming from a high source and entitled to great respect. He says, “the Senate is to be composed of men appointed by the State Legislatures. They will certainly choose those who are most distinguished for their general knowledge. I presume they will also instruct them.”

In these reported debates, Hamilton is represented to have said—that “it would be a standing instruction of the larger States to increase the representation.” Observe, this is not applied to the Senators only, but to the delegates or representatives of the States in Congress, in both Houses, and has no reference to any right of instruction by the State Legislatures to their Senators; that was not the subject of the debate; nor is it intimated by whom or in what manner these standing instructions are to be given. The meaning of General Hamilton, I think, is obvious, and has no bearing on our question. The phrase, standing instruction, means that it is so clearly the interest of the larger States to increase their representation, that their delegates will always consider themselves to be bound, to be instructed by that interest, by their duty to their States, to vote for such increase. They will so stand instructed, at all times and without any particular direction from their States; they will always take it for granted, that it is their duty to increase the representation. The very phrase distinguishes it from the case of specific instructions made, from time to time, on particular measures as they shall arise for deliberation and decision in the national legislature. But General Hamilton, as quoted, proceeds to say—“The people have it in their power to instruct their representatives, and the State Legislatures which appoint their Senators may enjoin it (that is the increase of the representation) also upon them.” I may here repeat that all this is true; but by no means reaches the point to which this right of instruction is now carried. The people may instruct, and the legislatures may enjoin, and both will always, doubtless, be attended to with a deep respect and a powerful influence; but if with all this respect and under this influence, the representative or the Senator cannot, in his honest and conscientious judgment, submit himself to them, does he violate his official duty, and is he bound to relinquish his office? This is the question, and no affirmative answer to it, or any thing that implies it, can be found in any of the writings or speeches of the gentleman alluded to; nor, as I believe, in any of the writings or speeches of any of the distinguished men at that time. The doctrine is of a later date; it is not coeval with the Constitution, nor with the men who formed it. Much reliance is placed, by the writer in the Enquirer, on the strict meaning of the word enjoin; it is thought to be peculiarly imperative. Conceding, for the argument, that this precise word was really used by the speaker, it is certain that in speaking, and even in writing, this word is not always used in the strict sense attributed to it. Cases of common parlance are familiar and of daily occurrence, in which it is used only to mean a strong, emphatic recommendation or advice—or a forcible expression of a wish, and not an absolute right to command. If, however, we turn to the dictionary, Johnson tells us that to enjoin is “to direct—to order—to prescribe; it is more authoritative than direct, and less imperious than command.” Not one of his illustrations or examples employ it in the strong sense of power now contended for.

“To satisfy the good old man,
I would bend under any heavy weight
That he'll enjoin me to.”

Here the submission or obedience is altogether voluntary; with no right or power in the “good old man” to require or compel it. Again,

“Monks and philosophers, and such as do continually enjoin themselves.”

The extracts from the speeches in the New York Convention, even if accurately reported, and strictly construed, do not seem to me to maintain the present Virginia doctrine of instructions. Allow me to repeat it, for it is that, and not something which may approach it, which is our subject of difference and argument. It is—whether a Senator of the United States is under any moral or constitutional obligation—whether he is bound as a faithful and true officer, or as a good citizen of the Republic of the United States, to obey the instructions of the Legislature of his State, when they require him to do an act which in his deliberate judgment and conscientious conviction, is contrary to his duty to his country, to all the States, and to his own State; to the Constitution, under and by which he holds his office and his power, and to the oath he has taken to support that Constitution? This is the question truly stated—can the power or authority of a changing, irresponsible body, which directs one thing this year (as we have repeatedly seen) and another the next, or, if it were not this changeling—force him to violate his oath, or absolve him from the responsibility, if he do so? If a Senator of Virginia or Delaware were to receive instructions to give a vote which he truly believed would be a violation of the rights, and injurious to the interests, of every other state of the confederacy, as secured to them by the Constitution, although it might be of some local advantage to Virginia or Delaware, should that Senator, acting as he does as a Senator, not for his particular State only, but for the States also whose rights he violates, obey such instructions? Can there be a doubt of the reply to this question? Will you say he should obey or resign—that another may come who will obey? I deny that his duty imposes any such alternative upon him. On the contrary, it is particularly his duty not to resign for such a reason or such an object. It would be to abandon the duty he owes to the Constitution and the other States, at the very moment when they need his services in their defence; and not only to abandon them, but to surrender his post and his power to one who, in his estimation, is so far their enemy as to take the post for the very purpose of violating them. It would be to desert “the general welfare” which he has sworn to defend and promote, in order to give his place and power to one who will sacrifice the general welfare to some local and particular interest or object. To desert it in such circumstances, may produce the same evils and consequences, as if he were to remain and obey his instructions. His vote or his absence may turn the question.

As the incidental arguments, not upon the direct question, attributed to Messrs. Jay and Hamilton, are now relied upon to support this doctrine of instructions, I will cheerfully refer to these great men, adding to them the name of Mr. Madison, and endeavor to show, from better evidence than reported debates, what were really their opinions upon this asserted power of the State Legislatures, and in what manner they thought Senators were amenable to their Legislatures for their acts and votes in the National Congress. I shall do this, not on the authority of reported speeches, but by adverting to what they have written and published, as the true spirit and doctrines of the Constitution. To be brief, I will give you the summing up of the argument in the “Federalist,” in favor of the powers of the Senate under the Constitution. I refer to the numbers 62 and 63, written by Mr. Madison; but, as it is understood, giving the opinions and views of the illustrious triumvirate. Their whole argument and exposition of the powers, duties, and responsibilities of the Senators, are utterly inconsistent with the control upon them now set up on the part of the State Legislatures. It is not merely that this right of instruction is no where mentioned or alluded to, as one of the means by which the Senators are to be kept to their duty, but such a right cannot be reconciled with the benefits intended by the Constitution to be derived from the permanency of that body—from its independence and its elevation above, or protection from, the caprices and fluctuations of popular feeling, often improperly called popular opinion. Allow me particularly to turn your attention to a few passages from Mr. Madison's examination of the “Constitution of the Senate.” His second reason for having a Senate, or second branch of the Legislative Assembly, is thus stated: “The necessity of a Senate is not less indicated by the propensity of all single and numerous assemblies to yield to the impulse of sudden and violent passions, and to be seduced by factious leaders into intemperate and pernicious resolutions.” If this is true of the House of Representatives of the United States; if their intemperate and pernicious resolutions are to be guarded against and controlled by the more sedate and permanent power of the Senate, how much stronger is the reason when applied to the Legislatures of the States? Having their narrow views of national questions, and their local designs and interests as the first objects of their attention, it seems to me to be a strange absurdity to put the Senate as a guard and control over the House of Representatives, and then to have that Senate under the direction and control of the Legislatures of the States—or it may be, on a vital question, under the direction of the Legislature of the smallest State in the Union. Are there no local impulses and passions to agitate these Legislatures? no factious leaders to seduce them into intemperate and pernicious resolutions—and to induce them to prefer some little, local advantage, to “the general welfare.” To give to the Senate the power, the will, and the courage to oppose and control these sudden and violent passions in the more popular branch of our national legislature, Mr. Madison says, “It ought moreover to possess great firmness, and consequently ought to hold its authority by a tenure of considerable duration.” But what can that firmness avail, how will it be shaken, of what possible use will it be, if the Senator is bound to follow the dictates of a changing body, subject, emphatically to sudden impulses and seductions, at a distance from the scene of his deliberations, and deprived of the sources of information which he possesses, and acting in a different sphere of duty from that he moves in? Firmness in an agent who has no will of his own, no right to act but on the dictation of another, would not only be superfluous, but a positive evil and disqualification. It would produce struggles and perhaps refusal, where his duty was to submit. The more pliable the instrument in such a case, the better would it answer the purposes it was designed for. To be firm, says Mr. Madison, the Senator must hold his authority by a tenure of considerable duration. But how can this be, if he is to hold it from year to year as the Legislature of his State may change its opinion on the same subject, and require him to follow these changes or to resign his place? The tenure of the Constitution, as Mr. Madison understood it, is essentially changed by this doctrine. These changes of opinions and measures are, in the opinion of Mr. Madison, a great and dangerous evil in any government, and show “the necessity of some stable institution”—such as our Senate was intended to be—but such as it cannot be on this doctrine of instructions.

But this great man and enlightened statesman, jealous enough of the rights and liberties of the people, does not stop here in explaining the uses of the Senate. It is not the passions of Legislatures only that are to be guarded against by the conservative power of that body. He thinks that it “may be sometimes necessary as a defence to the people against their own temporary errors and delusions;” he justly applauds the salutary interference in critical moments, of some respectable and temperate body of citizens, “to check the misguided career, and to suspend the blow meditated by the people against themselves, until reason, justice, and truth can regain their authority over the public mind.” He considers the Senate as “an anchor against popular fluctuations;” and he certainly never imagined that the capstan and cable were in the hands of the State Legislatures, to remove the anchor at their pleasure. He truly says, that in all free governments, the cool and deliberate sense of the community ought and ultimately will prevail; but he did not believe that this cool and deliberate sense would be found, on the spur of the occasion, in a popular body liable to intemperate and sudden passions and impulses, and the seductions of factious leaders. It was to control and check such movements, and not to be controlled by them, that the Senate was constituted; and to check and suspend them until the deliberate and cool sense of the community can be obtained; which, when fairly ascertained, will be recognized and respected by the Senate as fully and certainly as by the Legislatures of the States. The members of these Legislatures have no means of knowing the public sentiments, which are not equally open to the Senators; nor are their inducements to conform to them more persuasive or strong. Mr. Madison goes so far as to say, that as our governments are entirely representative, there is “a total exclusion of the people in their collective capacity, from any share in them.” If then, the will of the people, declared by themselves, should not move a Senator from his own conviction of his duty, when he believes the act required of him is contrary to that duty, and such is the constitutional right and obligation of his office, shall he be driven to a violation of that duty or a relinquishment of that right, by a second-hand, doubtful, equivocal, and, perhaps, false, expression of that will, by and through an intermediate body, no better informed of the cool and deliberate sense of the community than he is himself—no better disposed than he is to satisfy the public sentiment, and not half so well informed as he is of the tendency and consequences of the measure in question?

To meet the objections to the dangerous power of the Senate, continued for so long a period as six years, and to quiet the alarm that had been raised on that subject, Mr. Madison states what he supposed to be the check or protection provided by the Constitution against their usurpations, and which he thought amply sufficient. What is that check? Is it any right in the appointing Legislatures to direct his conduct and his votes, and to revoke his powers, directly or indirectly, if he refuse his obedience? If for any cause, justifiable and honest or not so, they wish to deprive him of his office, to annul the appointment made by a preceding legislature or by themselves, may they do so by giving him instructions at their pleasure, desiring nothing but to accomplish their own objects, and in a total disregard of his judgment, conscience, and duties, and then say to him, knowing that he would not and could not obey their mandate, resign your place, and put it at our disposal, that we may gratify some new favorite, or promote some design of our own. The next Legislature may choose to drive out the new favorite and reinstate the old one; and thus this Senate, instead of being an anchor to the State, a stable and permanent body to save us from sudden gales and storms, will in practice, be floating on the surface, fixed to nothing, and driven to and fro by every change of the wind. Instruction and resignation are not the means proposed by Mr. Madison to protect us from the corruption or tyranny of the Senate. He suggests no interference, in any way, on the part of the State Legislatures with their Senators, nor any control over them, during their continuance in office; but finds all the safety he thought necessary, and all that the Constitution gives, in the “periodical change of its members.” In addition to this, much reliance, no doubt, was placed, and ought to be so, on the expectation, that the State Legislatures would appoint to this high and responsible office, only men of known and tried character and patriotism, having themselves a deep stake in the liberties of their country, and bound by all the ties of integrity and honor to a faithful discharge of their trust.

If the Constitution—for that is our government, and by that must this question be decided—intended to reserve this great controlling power to the State Legislatures, over the Legislature of the United States, for such it is as now claimed, we should have found some provision to this effect, some evidence of this intention, either expressed, or by a fair and clear implication, in the instrument itself. Nothing of the kind appears. We should have further found some form of proceeding to compel a refractory Senator to obey the lawful, authoritative mandate of his State Legislature. It is an anomaly in any government to give an authority to a man or body of men, without any power to enforce it, to carry it out into practice and action, to make it effectual. To give a right to command, and to furnish no means to compel obedience, no process to punish a disregard to the order, is indeed like Glendower's power to call spirits, but not to make them come. To say that I have a right to order another to do or not to do an act, but that it is left to his discretion to obey me or not, is a contradiction in terms. It is no right, or at least no more than one of those imperfect rights which create no obligation of respect. If I give to my agent a command which, by the terms and tenure of his agency, by the limitations of his authority, he is bound to obey, and he refuses to do so, I may revoke his power, or rather he had no power for the act in question; he is not my agent, and cannot bind me beyond his lawful authority, or in contradiction to my lawful command. On the other hand, that I am bound by his acts is a full and unquestionable proof that he has acted by and within his powers, and that I had no right to give the command which he has disobeyed. There cannot be a lawful command, and a lawful disobedience on the same subject. If by the terms of the power of attorney, which is the contract between the principal and his agent, certain matters are left to the judgment and discretion of the attorney, or are within the scope of his appointment, without any reservation of control on the part of the principal; then no such control exists, and this is most especially the case when the rights and interests of other parties are concerned in the execution of the power and trust.

Will it be said that the obligation of a Senator to obey the instructions of his Legislature, although not found in the Constitution, results from the circumstance that he received his appointment and power from that body? It is impossible to sustain this ground. I recur to the case of a common agent to whom a full and general power is given, irrevocable for six years; and, to make the case more apposite, in the execution of which power the rights and interests of other parties are deeply concerned, so that, in fact, the agent is the attorney of those parties as well as of the one from whom he receives his appointment. Will any one pretend that an agent so constituted and thus becoming the attorney of all, with the right and power to bind all by his acts, is afterwards to be subject to the direction of any one of the parties in any proposed measure bearing on the general interest, merely because his immediate appointment came from that party? When he is appointed, his powers and his duties extend far beyond the source of his authority, and are, consequently, placed beyond that control. His responsibility is to all for whom he is the agent, and he is false to his trust if he surrenders himself to the dictates of any one, or sacrifices the general to a particular interest. The President and Senate appoint the judges, but it does not result from this that judges are to be under the dictation and control of the executive. So of any other officer acting within the sphere of his authority. The President by his general power may remove him, for that or for any other cause, or for no cause, but while he holds the office, he exercises its powers at his own discretion, and is not bound to obey the appointing power. In a despotism the master holds the bridle and the lash over every slave he appoints to execute his will, but in a free representative government it is the law that is to be executed and obeyed, and the officer, in performing his prescribed duties, is independent of every power but that of the law. This is indispensable to the harmonious action of the whole system.

I do not know whether the advocates of this doctrine of instructions extend it to trials or impeachments before the Senate. If they do not, I would ask on what distinct principle do they exempt such cases from this legislative right of dictation? The claim is broad and general, covering all the powers, duties, and acts of a Senator. Who is authorized to make the exceptions? By what known rule are they to be made, or do they depend upon an arbitrary will? Is this will or power lodged in the State Legislatures? Then they make the exception or not, at their pleasure; they may forbear to interfere in one impeachment—and they may send in their dictation in another, according as, in their discretion, it may or may not be a case calling for their interference. Their power over their Senator, to compel him to obey or resign, is in their own hands, and they may issue their mandate to him to condemn or acquit the accused, or they may leave him to his own judgment and conscience as they may deem it to be expedient. Such is the state of the case, if the right of discrimination, of making exceptions from the general power of control, is vested in the Legislatures themselves. Is it then given to the other party, that is, to the Senator? Then the power resolves itself into an empty name; or rather into just what I say it should be, a recommendation entitled to great deference and respect, but with no obligation to obedience. If the Senator has an admitted discretion to obey or not to obey the instructions of his Legislature, according to the nature of the case in which they are given, then the right of the Legislature to give them is not absolute in any case, but it is left to the judgment of the Senator to decide for himself whether the case be one in which he can and ought to follow their instructions or not. There is no special exception of impeachments, and the right to exempt them from this legislative control, if it exist at all, must depend upon the nature of the case, and, of consequence, what is the nature of a case which entitles it to this exemption must be decided by the Legislature or by their Senator. We have seen the effect of either alternative. In truth, this power of control must be co-extensive with the powers and duties of the Senator, or it is nothing.

To give you the strongest case against my argument, I will suppose that the Constitution had said—“The State Legislatures may instruct their Senators,” and had said no more; would this have created an imperious obligation on the Senator implicitly to obey the instructions? Would disobedience forfeit his office directly, or virtually by making it his duty to resign it? I think not. It would have been no more than a constitutional, perhaps a superfluous, recognition of the right of the State Legislatures to interfere so far and in this way, with the measures of the federal government, to give their opinions, their recommendation, their counsel, to their Senators; but the Senators would afterwards be at liberty, nay it would be their duty, to act and vote according to their own judgment and consciences, on the responsibility which they constitutionally owe to their constituents, which is found, as Mr. Madison says, in the periodical change of the members of the Senate. The Constitution knows no other check upon the Senators; no other responsibility to the State Legislature, while the Senator acts within and by the admitted powers of his office.

But I am wearying you to death. Let me conclude this interminable epistle by referring to an authority which no man living holds in higher reverence than you do. About a week or ten days before the death of that great and pure man, a true and fearless patriot, Chief Justice Marshall, I called to see him. This question of instructions was then in high debate in your papers. I said to him that I thought the Virginia doctrine of instructions was inconsistent with all the principles of our government, and subversive of the stability of its foundations. He replied in these words—“It is so; indeed the Virginia doctrines are incompatible not only with the government of the United States, but with any government.” These were the last words I heard from the lips of John Marshall.

H..

PERDICARIS.

Mr. Editor,—In introducing the following pieces to your notice, permit me to say a few words of the gentleman whose lectures on the condition and prospects of his native Greece have occasioned them to be offered to you. Perdicaris is a native of Berea in Macedonia, a place memorable not only for classic but for sacred associations. He left his country while a youth, about the commencement of the Greek revolution; and after travelling for some time in Syria and Egypt, was brought off by an American vessel of war, from Smyrna, where his situation as a Greek was extremely perilous. His education having been completed in this country, he engaged as a teacher of the Greek language, first at the Mount Pleasant Institution, Amherst, Massachusetts, and subsequently at Washington College, Hartford, Connecticut. Being now about to return to his native country, he is perfecting his acquaintance with the United States and their institutions, by travel; while at the same time he aims by lectures delivered in the various cities, to excite an interest in the public mind in the prospects and condition of his own country. It appears to be his most earnest wish, to remove some false ideas with respect to his native land, which have been too generally prevalent, and which even the tone of Byron's poetry—friend of Greece as he was—has tended to confirm. In the accounts of Perdicaris, we discover that his country is still worthy of her ancient fame, that she possesses, and has possessed for years, numerous and eminent scholars, noble institutions of learning, a national poetry of no ordinary merit, an active and intelligent population, and a general diffusion of enlightened public spirit, of which it is as gratifying as it is unexpected, to be informed.

Of the two following pieces, the one is a translation, executed with Mr. Perdicaris's assistance, from Christopoulos, who has been styled the Modern Anacreon. It has in the original, an amusing and touching simplicity, which I have not, I fear, succeeded in preserving. The second piece must speak for itself.

FROM THE ROMAIC OF CHRISTOPOULOS.

Orb of day, thus rising splendid,
Through the glowing realms of air!
Be thy course for once suspended,
For a message to my fair.
Two of thy bright rays be darted;
Let them, as the maid they greet,
Say, her lover, faithful-hearted,
Worships humbly at her feet.
He, of late so full of pleasure,
Tell her, now can scarce draw breath;
Living parted from his treasure,
He is like one sick to death.
Hour by hour, his pain enhancing,
Brings the final struggle near;
Death, with stealthy tread advancing,
Claims the spirit lingering here.
If he die, let her lament him;
Let her not forget the dead;
Let a message kind be sent him,
To the shores he now must tread.
If perchance where he is resting
In the cold and dreamless sleep,
She should pass, her steps arresting,
One soft tear there let her weep.
These, dear Sun, for me repeating,
Then pursue thy brilliant way;
But the words of this sad greeting,
O forget them not, I pray!

TO G. A. PERDICARIS.

We hail thee, Greek, from that far shore,
Young Freedom's chosen land of yore!
There were her first high Pæans poured—
There proved in fight her virgin sword—
There fell her eldest-martyr'd brave,
The heroes of the mount and wave!
We hail thee! Not a breast that burns
With but a spark of patriot fire,
But to thy country's altar turns,
And listens to thy country's lyre.
Grecian, forgive the idle thought!
We deemed old Hellas' spirit fled.
Yes! when thy brethren bravely fought
On plains where rest the immortal dead,
We scarce cast off the unworthy fear,
Scarce hoped that Greece might yet be free:
It seemed a boon too bright, too dear
For our degenerate age to see
A newly-won Thermopylæ.
And e'en if Grecian valor burst
Its chains, we little deemed thy clime
That generous intellect had nursed
That shone so bright in elder time.
But who could catch thy burning words,
The changes of thy speaking eye,
And deem that time, or tyrant swords
Could bid the Grecian spirit die?
Thanks for the lesson thou hast given!
It shows, where Freedom once hath dwelt,
Though every bolt of angry Heaven
Age after age should there be dealt,
There is a power they cannot kill;
The proud, free spirit of the race
Lives on through woe and bondage still,
The eternal Genius of the place.
Yes! Hear the lesson, distant lands,
Where Goth and Russ with iron rod
Press down and cramp in servile bands
The living images of God!
Hear, Poland! soon shall dawn the day
Of liberty and peace for thee!
And thou, where Rhine's blue waters play!
And thou, once glorious Italy!
And thou, my country, be thou true!
The great of former days arise,
The same bright path again pursue
That marked their ancient victories.
Greece is thy rival for renown!
Arouse thee to the noble strife!
Thou must not lose thy glory's crown,
Well won by many a hero's life!
No! Onward still, ye noble pair,
Each mindful of the illustrious past,
The struggle and the triumph share,
And ever may that triumph last!

B..

MS.S. OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.¹

¹ These pieces, from the pen of Dr. Franklin, have never appeared in any edition of his works, and are from the manuscript book which contains the Lecture and Essays published in former numbers of the Messenger.

PROPOSALS

That P. S. and A. N. be immediately invited into the Junto.

That all new members be qualified by the four qualifications, and all the old ones take it.

That these queries copied at the beginning of a book, be read distinctly each meeting, a pause between each while one might fill and drink a glass of wine.

That if they cannot all be gone through in one night, we begin the next where we left off, only, such as particularly regard the funds to be read every night.

That it be not hereafter the duty of any member to bring queries, but left to his discretion.

That an old declamation be, without fail, read every night when there is no new one.

That Mr. Brientnal's Poem on the Junto be read over once a month, and hum'd in consort² by as many as can hum it.

² Concert was thus spelt in the beginning of the last century. See many examples in the Tatler, etc.

That once a month in spring, summer and fall, the Junto meet in the afternoon in some proper place across the river for bodily exercise.

That in the aforesaid book be kept minutes thus:

Friday, June 30, 1732.

Present A, B, C, D, E, F, etc.

Figure denotes the queries answered.

1. H. P. read this maxim, viz. or this experiment, viz. or etc.

5. Lately arrived one —— of such a profession or such a science, etc.

7. X. Y. grew rich by this means, etc.

That these minutes be read once a year at the anniversary.

That all fines due be immediately paid in, and the penal laws for queries and declamations abolished, only he who is absent above ten times in the year, to pay 10s. towards the anniversary entertainment.

That the secretary, for keeping the minutes, be allowed one shilling per night, to be paid out of the money already in his hands.

That after the queries are begun reading, all discourse foreign to them shall be deemed impertinent.

When any thing from reading an author is mentioned, if it exceed a line, and the Junto require it, the person shall bring the passage or an abstract of it in writing the next night, if he has it not with him.

When the books of the library come, every member shall undertake some author, that he may not be without observations to communicate.

How shall we judge of the goodness of a writing? or what qualities should a writing on any subject have, to be good and perfect in its kind?

Answer 1. To be good it ought to have a tendency to benefit the reader by improving his virtue or his knowledge.

The method should be just, that is, it should proceed regularly from things known to things unknown, distinctly and clearly, without confusion.

The words used should be the most expressive that the language affords, provided they are the most generally understood.

Nothing should be expressed in two words that can as well be expressed in one; i.e. no synonymes should be used or very rarely, but the whole be as short as possible, consistent with clearness.

The words should be so placed as to be agreeable to the ear in reading.

Summarily,—It should be smooth,
clear, and
short,

For the contrary qualities are displeasing.

But taking the query otherwise:

An ill man may write an ill thing well; that is, having an ill design he may use the properest style and arguments (considering who are to be readers) to attain his ends.

In this sense, that is best wrote which is best adapted for attaining the end of the writer.

Can a man arrive at perfection in this life, as some believe; or is it impossible, as others believe?

Perhaps they differ in the meaning of the word perfection.

I suppose the perfection of any thing to be only the greatest the nature of that thing is capable of.

Thus a horse is more perfect than an oyster, yet the oyster may be a perfect oyster, as well as the horse a perfect horse.

And an egg is not so perfect as a chicken, nor a chicken as a hen; for the hen has more strength than the chicken, and the chicken more life than the egg—yet it may be a perfect egg, chicken, and hen.

If they mean a man cannot in this life be so perfect as an angel, it is true, for an angel by being incorporeal, is allowed some perfections we are at present incapable of, and less liable to some imperfections that we are liable to. If they mean a man is not capable of being so perfect here as he is capable of being in heaven, that may be true likewise.

But that a man is not capable of being so perfect here as he is capable of being here, is not sense; it is as if I should say, a chicken in the state of a chicken is not capable of being so perfect as a chicken is capable of being in that state.

In the above sense there may be a perfect oyster, a perfect horse, a perfect ship, why not a perfect man? that is, as perfect as his present nature and circumstances admit?

Question. Wherein consists the happiness of a rational creature?

Answer. In having a sound mind and a healthy body, a sufficiency of the necessaries and conveniences of life, together with the favor of God and the love of mankind.

Q. What do you mean by a sound mind?

A. A faculty of reasoning justly and truly, in searching after such truths as relate to my happiness. Which faculty is the gift of God, capable of being improved by experience and instruction into wisdom.

Q. What is wisdom?

A. The knowledge of what will be best for us on all occasions and the best ways of attaining it.

Q. Is any man wise at all times and in all things?

A. No: but some are much more frequently wise than others.

Q. What do you mean by the necessaries of life?

A. Having wholesome food and drink wherewith to satisfy hunger and thirst, clothing, and a place of habitation fit to secure against the inclemencies of the weather.

Q. What do you mean by the conveniences of life?

A. Such a plenty * * * * *

Query.—Whether it is worth a rational man's while to forego the pleasure arising from the present luxury of the age in eating and drinking and artful cookery, studying to gratify the appetite, for the sake of enjoying a healthy old age, a sound mind and a sound body, which are the advantages reasonably to be expected from a more simple and temperate diet?

Whether those meats and drinks are not the best that contain everything in their natural tastes, nor have any thing added by art so pleasing as to induce us to eat or drink when we are not athirst or hungry, or after thirst and hunger are satisfied; water, for instance, for drink, and bread, or the like, for meat?

Is there any difference between knowledge and prudence?

If there is any, which of the two is most eligible?

Is it justifiable to put private men to death for the sake of the public safety or tranquillity, who have committed no crime? As in case of the plague to stop infection, or as in the case of the Welshmen here executed.

If the sovereign power attempts to deprive a subject of his right, (or, what is the same thing, of what he thinks his right,) is it justifiable in him to resist if he is able?

What general conduct of life is most suitable for men in such circumstances as most of the members of the Junto are? or of the many schemes of living which are in our power to pursue, which will be most probably conducive to our happiness?

Which is the best to make a friend of, a wise and good man that is poor, or a rich man that is neither wise nor good?

Which of the two is the greatest loss to a country, if they both die?

Which of the two is happiest in life?

Does it not, in a general way, require great study and intense application for a poor man to become rich and powerful, if he would do it without the forfeiture of his honesty?

Does it not require as much pains, study and application, to become truly wise and strictly good and virtuous, as to become rich?

Can a man of common capacity pursue both views with success at the same time?

If not, which of the two is it best for him to make his whole application to?

The great secret of succeeding in conversation, is to admire little, to hear much, always to distrust our own reason, and sometimes that of our friends; never to pretend to wit, but to make that of others appear as much as possibly we can; to hearken to what is said and to answer to the purpose.

Ut jam nunc dicat jam nunc debentia dici.

LOSING AND WINNING.

By the author of the “Cottage in the Glen,” “Sensibility,” &c.

Think not, the husband gained, that all is done;
The prize of happiness must still be won;
And, oft, the careless find it to their cost,
The lover in the husband may be lost;
The graces might, alone, his heart allure—
They and the virtues, meeting, must secure.
Lord Lyttleton.

Can I not win his love?
Is not his heart of “penetrable stuff?”
Will not submission, meekness, patience, truth,
Win his esteem?—a sole desire to please,
Conquer indifference?—they must—they will!
Aid me, kind heaven—I'll try!
Anon.

It was a bright and beautiful autumnal evening. The earth was clad in a garb of the richest and brightest hues; and the clear cerulean of the heavens, gave place, near the setting sun, to a glowing ‘saffron color,’ over which was hung a most magnificent drapery of crimson clouds. Farther towards both the north and south, was suspended here and there a sable curtain, fringed with gold, folded as but one hand could fold them. They seemed fitting drapery to shroud the feet of Him, who “maketh the clouds his chariot, who rideth upon the wings of the wind.”

Such was the evening on which Edward Cunningham conducted his fair bride into the mansion prepared for her reception. But had both earth and heaven been decked with ten-fold splendor, their beauty and magnificence would have been lost on him; for his thoughts, his affections, his whole being were centered in the graceful creature that leaned on his arm, and whom he again and again welcomed to her new abode—her future home. He forgot that he still moved in a world that was groaning under the pressure of unnumbered evils; forgot that earthly joy is oft-times but a dream, a fantasy, that vanishes like the shadow of a summer cloud, that flits across the landscape, or, as the morning vapor before the rising sun; forgot that all on this side heaven, is fleeting, and changeable, and false. In his bride, the object of his fondest love, he felt that he possessed a treasure whose smile would be unclouded sunshine to his soul; whose society would make another Eden bloom for him. It was but six short months since he first saw her who was now his wife; and for nearly that entire period he had been in ‘the delirium of love,’ intent only on securing her as his own. He had attained his object, and life seemed spread before him, a paradise of delight, blooming with roses, unaccompanied by thorns.

Joy and sorrow, in this world, dwell side by side. In a stately mansion, two doors only from the one that had just received the joyful bridegroom and happy bride, dwelt one who had been four weeks a wife. On that same bright evening she was sitting in the solitude of her richly furnished chamber, her elbows resting on a table, her hands supporting her head, while a letter lay spread before her, on which her eyes, blinded by tears, were rivetted. The letter was from her husband. He had been from home nearly three weeks, in which time she had heard from him but once, and then only by a brief verbal message. The letter that lay before her had just arrived; it was the first she had ever received from her husband, and ran thus:—

Mrs. Westbury—Thinking you might possibly expect to see me at home this week, I write to inform you that business will detain me in New York some time longer.

Yours, &c.
FREDERIC WESTBURY.

For a long time the gentle, the feeling Julia, indulged her tears and her grief without restraint. Again, and again, she read the laconic epistle before her, to ascertain what more might be made of it than at first met the eye. But nothing could be clothed in plainer language, or be more easily understood. It was as brief, and as much to the point as those interesting letters which debtors sometimes receive from their creditors, through the agency of an attorney. “Did ever youthful bride,” thought she, “receive from her husband such a letter as this? He strives to show me the complete indifference and coldness of his heart toward me. O, why did I accept his hand, which was rather his father's offering than his own? Why did I not listen to my reason, rather than to my fond and foolish heart, and resist the kind old man's reasonings and pleadings? Why did I believe him when he told me I should win his son's affections? Did I not know that his heart was given to another? Dear old man, he fondly believed his Frederic's affections could not long be withheld from one whom he himself loved so tenderly—and how eagerly I drank in his assurances! Amid all the sorrow that I felt, while kneeling by his dying bed, how did my heart swell with undefinable pleasure, as he laid his hand, already chilled by death, upon my head, gave me his parting blessing, and said that his son would love me! Mistaken assurance! ah, why did I fondly trust it? Were I now free!—free!—would I then have the knot untied that makes me his for life? Not for a world like this! No, he is mine and I am his; by the laws of God and man, we are one. He must sometimes be at home; and an occasional hour in his society, will be a dearer bliss than aught this world can bestow beside. His father's blessing is still warm at my heart! I still feel his hand on my head! Let me act as he trusted I should act, and all may yet be well! Duties are mine—and thine, heavenly Father, are results. Overlook my infirmities, forgive all that needs forgiveness, sustain my weakness, and guide me by thine unerring wisdom.” She fell on her knees to continue her supplications, and pour out her full soul before her Father in heaven; and when she arose, her heart, if not happy, was calm; her brow, if not cheerful, was serene.

Frederic Westbury was an only child. He never enjoyed the advantages of maternal instruction, impressed on the heart by maternal tenderness—for his mother died before he was three years old, and all recollection of her had faded from his memory. Judge Westbury was one of the most amiable, one of the best of men; but with regard to the management of his son, he was too much like the venerable Israelitish priest. His son, like other sons, often did that which was wrong, ‘and he restrained him not.’ He was neither negligent in teaching, nor in warning; but instruction and discipline did not, as they ever should do, go hand-in-hand; and for want of this discipline, Frederic grew up with passions uncontrolled—with a will unsubdued. He received a finished education, and his mind, which was of a high order, was richly stored with knowledge. His pride of character was great, and he looked down with contempt on all that was dishonorable or vicious. He had a chivalrous generosity, and a frankness of disposition that led him to detest concealment or deceit. He loved or hated with his whole soul. In person he was elegant; his countenance was marked with high intellect and strong feeling; and he had the bearing of a prince. Such was Frederic Westbury at the age of four-and-twenty.

About a year before his marriage, Frederic became acquainted with Maria Eldon, a young lady of great beauty of person, and fascination of manner, who at once enslaved his affections. But against Miss Eldon, Judge Westbury had conceived a prejudice, and for once in his life was obstinate in refusing to indulge his son in the wish of his heart. He foresaw, or thought he did so, the utter ruin of that son's happiness, should he so ally himself. He had selected a wife for his son, a daughter-in-law for himself, more to his own taste. Julia Horton was possessed of all that he thought valuable or fascinating in woman. Possibly Frederic might have thought so too, had he known her, ere his heart was in possession of another; but being pointed out to him as the one to whom he must transfer his affections, he looked on her with aversion as the chief obstacle to the realization of his wishes. Julia was born, and had been educated, in a place remote from Judge Westbury's residence; but from her infancy he had seen her from time to time, as business led him into that part of the country in which her parents resided. In her childhood she entwined herself around the heart of the Judge; and from that period he had looked on her as the future wife of his son. His views and wishes, however, were strictly confined to his own breast, until, to his dismay, he found that his son's affections were entangled. This discovery was no sooner made than he wrote a pressing letter to Julia, who was now an orphan, to come and make him a visit of a few weeks. The reason he gave for inviting her was, that his health was rapidly declining, (which was indeed too true,) and he felt that her society would be a solace to his heart. Julia came; she saw Frederic; heard his enlightened conversation; observed his polished manners; remarked the lofty tone of his feelings; and giving the reins to her fancy, without consulting reason or prudence, she loved him. Too late for her security, but too soon for her peace, she learned that he loved another. Dreading lest she should betray her folly to the object of her unsought affection, she wished immediately to return to her native place. But to this Judge Westbury would not listen. He soon discovered the state of her feelings, and it gave him unmingled satisfaction. It augured well for the success of his dearest earthly hope; and as his strength was rapidly declining, consumption having fastened her deadly fangs upon him, to hasten him to the grave, he gave his whole mind to the accomplishment of his design. At first his son listened to the subject with undisguised impatience; but his feelings softened as he saw his father sinking to the tomb; and, in an unguarded hour, he promised him that he would make Julia his wife. Judge Westbury next exerted himself to obtain a promise from Julia that she would accept the hand of his son; and he rested not until they had mutually plighted their faith at his bed-side. To Frederic this was a moment of unmingled misery. He saw that his father was dying, and felt himself constrained to promise his hand to one woman, while his heart was in possession of another.

Julia's emotions were of the most conflicting character. To be the plighted bride of the man she loved, made her heart throb with joy, and her faith in his father's assurance that she would win his affections, sustained her hope, that his prediction would be verified. Yet when she marked the countenance of her future husband, her heart sank within her. She could not flatter herself into the belief, that its unmingled gloom arose solely from grief at the approaching death of his father. She felt that he was making a sacrifice of his fondest wishes at the shrine of filial duty.

Judge Westbury died; and with almost his parting breath, he pronounced a blessing upon Julia as his daughter—the wife of his son—most solemnly repeating his conviction that she would soon secure the heart of her husband!

Immediately on the decease of her friend and father, Julia returned home, and in three months Frederic followed her to fulfil his promise. He was wretched, and would have given a world, had he possessed it, to be free from his engagement. But that could never be. His word had been given to his father, and must be religiously redeemed. “I will make her my wife,” thought he; “I promised my father that I would. Thank heaven, I never promised him that I would love her!” Repugnant as such an union was to his feelings, he was really impatient to have it completed; for as his idea of his duty and obligation went not beyond the bare act of making her his wife, he felt that, that once done, he should be comparatively a free man.

“I am come,” said he to Julia, “to fulfil my engagement. Will you name a day for the ceremony?”

His countenance was so gloomy, his manners so cold—so utterly destitute of tenderness or kindly feeling, that something like terror seized Julia's heart; and without making any reply, she burst into tears.

“Why these tears, Miss Horton?” said he. “Our mutual promise was given to my father; it is fit we redeem it.”

“No particular time was specified,” said Julia timidly, and with a faltering voice. “Is so much haste necessary?”

“My father wished that no unnecessary delay should be made,” said Frederic, “and I can see no reason why we should not as well be married now, as at any future period. If you consult my wishes, you will name an early day.”

The day was fixed, and at length arrived, presenting the singular anomaly of a man eagerly hastening to the altar, to utter vows from which his heart recoiled, and a woman going to it with trembling and reluctance, though about to be united to him who possessed her undivided affections.

The wedding ceremony over, Mr. Westbury immediately took his bride to his elegantly furnished house; threw it open for a week, to receive bridal visits; and then gladly obeyed a summons to New York, to attend to some affairs of importance. On leaving home, he felt as if released from bondage. A sense of propriety had constrained him to pay some little attention to his bride, and to receive the congratulations of his friends with an air of satisfaction, at least; while those very congratulations congealed his heart, by bringing to mind the ties he had formed with one he could not love, to the impossibility of his forming them with the one whom he idolized. When he had been absent about ten days, he availed himself of an opportunity to send a verbal message to his wife, informing her that he was well, and should probably be at home in the course of two weeks; but when that period was drawing toward a close, his business was not completed, and as home was the last place he wished to visit, he resolved to protract his absence, so long as he had a reasonable excuse. “I must write, and inform her of the change in my plan,” thought he, “decency demands it, yet how can I write? My dear Julia!—my dear wife! No such thing—she is not dear to me!

‘Ce cœur au moins, difficile à domter,
Ne peut aimer ni par ordre d'un père,
Ni par raison.’

She is my wife—she is Mrs. Westbury—she is mistress of my house, and must share my fortune—let that suffice her! It must have been for these that she married me. A name! a fortune! an elegant establishment! Mean! ambitious! heartless! Thou, Maria—bright, beautiful, and tender—thou wouldest have married me for myself! Alas, I am undone! O, my father!” Under the influence of feelings like these, he wrote the laconic epistle which cost his bride so many bitter tears.

It was at the close of about two weeks from this, that Julia was sitting one evening in her parlor, dividing the time betwixt her work and a book, when the door-bell rang, and a minute after the parlor door opened, and Mr. Westbury entered. With sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks, she sprang forward, her hand half extended to meet his—but his ceremonious bow, and cold “good evening Mrs. Westbury,” recalled her recollection; and scarcely able to reply to his civility, she sank back on her chair. She thought she was prepared to see him cold and distant—thought she expected it—but she had deceived herself. Notwithstanding all her bitter ruminations on her husband's indifference toward her, there had been a little under current of hope, playing at the bottom of her heart, and telling her he might return more cordial than he went. His cold salutation, and colder eye, sent her to her seat, disappointed, sick at heart, and nearly fainting. In a minute, however, she recovered her self-possession, and made those inquiries concerning his health and journey, that propriety dictated. In spite of himself, she succeeded in some degree in drawing him out. She was gentle, modest, and unobtrusive—and good sense and propriety were conspicuous in all she said. Beside, she looked very pretty. Her figure, though rather below the medium size, was very fine, her hand and foot of unrivalled beauty. She was dressed with great simplicity, but good taste was betrayed in every thing about her person. She wore her dress, too, with a peculiar grace, equally remote from precision and negligence. Her features were regular, and her complexion delicate; but the greatest attraction of her face, was the facility and truth with which it expressed every feeling of the heart. When Mr. Westbury first entered the parlor, an observer might have pronounced her beautiful; but the bright glow of transient joy that then kindled her cheek, had faded away, and left her pale—so pale, that Mr. Westbury inquired, even with some little appearance of interest, “whether her health was as good as usual?” Her voice, which was always soft and melodious, was even softer and sweeter than usual, as she answered “that it was.” Mr. Westbury at length went so far as to make some inquiries relative to her occupations during his absence, whether she had called on the new bride, Mrs. Cunningham, and other questions of similar consequence. For the time he forgot Maria Eldon; was half unconscious that Julia was his wife—and viewing her only as a companion, he passed an hour or two very comfortably.

One day when Mr. Westbury came in to dinner, Julia handed him a card of compliments from Mr. and Mrs. Brooks, who were about giving a splendid party.

“I have returned no answer,” said Julia, “not knowing whether you would wish to accept the invitation or not.”

“For yourself, you can do as you please, Mrs. Westbury—but I shall certainly attend it.”

“I am quite indifferent about the party,” said Julia, “as such scenes afford me little pleasure; but should be pleased to do as you think proper—as you think best.” Her voice trembled a little, as she spoke; for she had not yet become sufficiently accustomed to Mr. Westbury's brusque manner toward herself, to hear it with perfect firmness. “I should think it very suitable that you pay Mr. and Mrs. Brooks this attention,” Mr. Westbury replied.

Nothing more was said on the subject, and Julia returned an answer agreeable to the wishes of her husband.

The evening to visit Mrs. Brooks at length arrived, and Julia repaired to her chamber to dress for the occasion. To render herself pleasing in the eyes of her husband was the sole wish of her heart, but how to do this was the question. She would have given the world to know his taste, his favorite colors, and other trifles of the like nature—but of these she was completely ignorant, and must therefore be guided by her own fancy. “Simplicity,” thought she—“simplicity is the surest way; for it never disgusts—never offends, if it does not captivate.” Accordingly, she arrayed herself in a plain white satin—and over her shoulders was thrown a white blond mantle, with an azure border, while a girdle of the same hue encircled her waist. Her toilet completed, Julia descended to the parlor, her shawl and calash in her hand. Mr. Westbury was waiting for her, and just casting his eyes over her person, he said—“If you are ready, Mrs. Westbury, we will go immediately, as it is now late.” Most of the guests were already assembled when they arrived at the mansion opened for their reception, and it was not quite easy to get access to the lady of the house, to make their compliments. This important duty, however, was at length happily accomplished, and Mr. Westbury's next effort was to obtain a seat for his wife. She would have preferred retaining his arm, at least for a while, as few persons present were known to her, and she felt somewhat embarrassed and confused; but she durst not say so, as, from her husband's manner, she saw that he wished to be free from such attendance. In such matters the heart of a delicate and sensitive woman seldom deceives her. Is it that her instincts are superior to those of men?

Julia had been seated but a short time before Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham approached her, and entered into a lively conversation. This was a great relief to Julia, who could have wept at her solitary and neglected situation, alone, in the midst of a crowd. Mrs. Cunningham was in fine spirits, and her husband appeared the happiest of the happy. Not that he appeared particularly to enjoy society—but his blooming wife was by his side, and his eyes rested on her with looks of the tenderest love—while the sound of her voice seemed constantly to awaken a thrill of pleasure in his heart. After conversing with Julia awhile, Mrs. Cunningham said—

“Do you prefer sitting to walking, Mrs. Westbury? Pray take my arm, and move about with us a little—it looks so dull for a person to sit through a party.”

Julia gladly accepted the offer, and was soon drawn away from herself, in listening to the lively rattle of her companion, who, although only a resident of a few weeks in the city, seemed already acquainted with all the gentlemen, and half the ladies present. An hour had been passed in this manner, and in partaking of the various refreshments that were provided—to which Julia did little honor, though this was of no consequence, as Mrs. Cunningham amply made up all her deficiencies of this kind—when the sound of music in another room attracted their attention. Julia was extremely fond of music, and as their present situation, amid the confusion of tongues, was very unfavorable for its enjoyment, Mr. Cunningham proposed that they should endeavor to make their way to the music room. After considerable detention, they succeeded in accomplishing their object, so far at least as to get fairly within the door. Considering the number of persons present, and how few there are that do not prefer the music of their own tongues to any other melody, the room was remarkably still—a compliment deserved by the young lady who sat to the piano, who played and sang with great skill and feeling. Julia's attention was soon attracted to her husband, who was standing on the opposite side of the room, leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his breast, his eyes resting on the performer with an expression of warm admiration, while a deep shade of melancholy was cast over his features. Julia's heart beat tumultuously. “Is it the music,” thought she, “or the musician that thus rivets his attention? Would I knew who it is that plays and sings so sweetly!” She did not remain long in doubt. The song finished, all voices were warm in its praise.

“How delightfully Miss Eldon plays! and with what feeling she sings!” exclaimed Mrs. Cunningham. “I never listened to a sweeter voice!”

The blood rushed to Julia's head, and back again to her heart, like a torrent; a vertigo seized her; and all the objects before her, were, for a moment, an indistinct, whirling mass. But she did not faint; she did not even betray her feelings, though she took the first opportunity to leave the room, and obtain a seat. For a long time she was unconscious of all that was passing around her; she could not even think—she only felt. Her husband's voice was the first thing that aroused her attention. He was standing near her with another gentleman; but it was evident that neither of them were aware of her proximity.

“Mrs. Brooks looks uncommonly well to-night,” said Mr. Westbury's companion; “her dress is peculiarly becoming.”

“It would be,” said Mr. Westbury, “were it not for those blue ribbands; but I can think no lady looks well who has any of that odious color about her.”

“It is one of the most beautiful and delicate colors in the world,” said the other gentleman. “I wonder at your taste.”

“It does finely in its place,” said Mr. Westbury—“that is—in the heavens above our heads—but never about the person of a lady.”

Julia wished her mantle and her girdle in Africa—“Yet why?” thought she. “I dare say he is ignorant that I have any of the color he so much dislikes, about me! His heart belongs to another, and he cares not—minds not, how she is clad whom he calls wife.”

Mr. Westbury and his friend now moved to another part of the room, and it was as much as Julia could do, to answer with propriety the few remarks that a passing acquaintance now and then made to her. At length the company began to disperse, and presently Julia saw Mr. Westbury leading Miss Eldon from the room. His head was inclined toward her; a bright hectic spot was on his cheek, and he was speaking to her in the softest tone, as they passed near where Julia was sitting. Miss Eldon's eyes were raised to his face, while her countenance wore a mingled expression of pain and pleasure. Julia had just time enough to remark all this, ere they left the room. “O, that I were away!” thought she—“that I were at home!—that I were—in my grave!” She sat perfectly still—perfectly unconscious of all that was going forward, until Mr. Westbury came to her, inquiring “whether she meant to be the last to take leave?” Julia mechanically arose, mechanically made her parting compliments to Mrs. Brooks—and scarcely knew any thing till she arrived at her own door. Just touching her husband's hand, she sprung from the carriage, and flew to her chamber. For a while she walked the floor in an agony of feeling. The constraint under which she had labored, served but to increase the violence of her emotion, now that she was free to indulge it. “O, why did I attend this party?” at length thought she—“O, what have I not suffered!” After a while, however, her reason began to operate. “What have I seen, that I ought not to have expected?” she asked herself. “What have I learned that I knew not before? except,” she added, “a trifling fact concerning my husband's taste.” Julia thought long and deeply; her spirits became calm; she renewed former resolutions; looked to heaven for wisdom to guide, and strength to sustain her—and casting aside the mantle, which would henceforth be useless to her, she instinctively threw a shawl over her shoulders to conceal the unlucky girdle, and, though the hour was late, descended to the parlor. Mr. Westbury was sitting by a table, leaning his head on his hand. It was not easy for Julia to address him on any subject not too exciting to her feelings—and still more difficult perfectly to command her voice, that its tones might be those of ease and cheerfulness; yet she succeeded in doing both. The question she asked, led Mr. Westbury to look up, and he was struck by the death-like paleness on her cheek. Julia could by an effort control her voice; she could in a degree subdue her feelings; but she could not command the expression of her countenance—could not bid the blood visit or recede from her cheeks at her will. She knew not, indeed, that at this time she was pale; her own face was the last thing in her mind. Mr. Westbury had no sooner answered her question, than he added—“You had better retire, Mrs. Westbury. You look as if the fatigues of the evening had been too much for you.”

“Fatigues of the evening!—Agonies rather,” thought Julia; but thanking him for his “kind” advice, she immediately retreated to her chamber.

Until this evening, Mr. Westbury had scarcely seen Miss Eldon since his marriage. He had avoided seeing her, being conscious that she retained her full power over his heart; and his sense of rectitude forbade his indulging a passion for one woman, while the husband of another. Miss Eldon suspected this, and felt piqued at his power over himself. Her heart fluttered with satisfaction when she saw him enter Mrs. Brooks's drawing-room; and she resolved to ascertain whether her influence over his affections were diminished. She was mortified and chagrined, that even here he kept aloof from her, giving her only a passing bow, as he walked to another part of the room. It was with unusual pleasure that she complied with a request to sit to the piano, for she well knew the power of music—of her own music over his heart. Never before had she touched the keys with so much interest. She did her best—that best was pre-eminently good—and she soon found that she had fixed the attention of him whom alone she cared to please. After singing one or two modern songs, she began one that she had learned at Mr. Westbury's request, at the period when he used to visit her almost daily. It was Burns's “Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,” and was with him a great favorite. When Miss Eldon came to the lines—

“Thou mind'st me of departed joys,
Departed, never to return”—

she raised her eyes to his face, and in an instant he forgot every thing but herself. “Her happiness is sacrificed as well as my own,” thought he; and leaning his head against the wall of the room, he gave himself up, for the time, to love and melancholy. The song concluded, however, he regained some control over his feelings, and still kept at a distance from her; nay—conquered himself, so far as to repair to the drawing-room, to escape from her dangerous vicinity. He saw her not again until she was equipped for her departure. Then she contrived to get near him, and threw so much sweetness and melancholy into her voice, as she said “good night, Mr. Westbury,” that he was instantly disarmed—and drawing her arm within his, conducted her from the room.

“How,” said he, in a low and tremulous tone, “how, Maria, could you sing that song, to harrow up my feelings? Time was, when to be near thee—to listen to thee, was my felicity; but now, duty forbids that I indulge in the dangerous delight.”

Miss Eldon replied not—but raised her eyes to his face, while she repressed a half-drawn sigh. Not another word was uttered until they exchanged “adieus” at her carriage door.

Two or three weeks passed away without the occurrence of any incident calculated to excite peculiar uneasiness in the heart of Julia. True, her husband was still the cold, the ceremonious, and occasionally the abrupt Mr. Westbury; he passed but little even of his leisure time at home; and she had never met his eye when it expressed pleasure, or even approbation. But he did not grow more cold—more ceremonious; the time he passed at his own fireside, rather increased than diminished—and for all this she was thankful. Her efforts to please were unceasing. Her house was kept in perfect order, and every thing was done in time, and well done. Good taste and good judgment were displayed in every arrangement. Her table was always spread with great care, and if her husband partook of any dish with peculiar relish, she was careful to have it repeated, but at such intervals as to gratify rather than cloy the appetite. In her dress she was peculiarly neat and simple, carefully avoiding every article of apparel that was tinctured with the “odious color.” She had naturally a fine mind, which had had the advantage of high cultivation; and without being obtrusive, or aiming at display, she strove to be entertaining and companionable. Above all, she constantly endeavored to maintain a placid, if not a cheerful brow, knowing that nothing is so repulsive as a discontented, frowning face. She felt that nothing was unimportant that might either please or displease her husband; his heart was the prize she was endeavoring to win; and the happiness of her life depended on the sentiments he should ultimately entertain toward her. Every thing she did was done not only properly, but gracefully; and though she never wearied in her efforts, she would oftentimes sigh that they were so unsuccessful. She sometimes feared that her very anxiety to please, blinded her as to the best manner of doing so; and would often repeat with a sigh, after some new, and apparently useless effort—

“Je le servirais mieux, si je l'eusse aimé moins.”

The first thing to disturb the kind of quiet that Julia enjoyed, was the prospect of another party. One morning, while at the breakfast table, a card was brought in from Mr. and Mrs. Parker, who were to be “at home” on Friday evening. After looking at the card, Julia handed it to Mr. Westbury in silence.

“It will be proper that we accept the invitation,” said Mr. Westbury.

The remembrance of the agony she endured at the last party she attended, caused Julia's voice to tremble a little, as she said—

“Just as you think best—but for my own part, I should seldom attend a party for the sake of enjoyment.”

“If Mrs. Westbury thinks it proper to immure herself as if in a convent, she can,” said Mr. Westbury; “for myself, I feel that society has claims upon me that I wish to discharge.”

“I will go if you think there would be any impropriety in my staying away,” said Julia.

“Situated as you are, I think there would,” said Mr. Westbury.

“Situated as I am!” thought Julia; “what does he mean? Does he refer to my station in society? or does he fear that the world will think me an unhappy wife, that wishes to seclude herself from observation?”

In the course of the morning, Julia called on Mrs. Cunningham, and found that lady and her husband discussing the point, whether or not they should attend Mrs. Parker's party.

“Are you going, Mrs. Westbury?” asked Mrs. Cunningham.

“Yes—Mr. Westbury thinks we had better do so,” Julia replied.

“Hear that, Edward!” said Mrs. Cunningham. “You perceive that Mr. Westbury likes that his wife should enjoy the pleasures of society.”

Mr. Cunningham looked a little hurt, as he said—“my dear Lucy, am I not more than willing to indulge you in every thing that will add to your happiness? I have only been trying to convince you how much more comfortable we should be by our own fireside, than in such a crowd as must be encountered at Mrs. Parker's. For myself, the society of my wife is my highest enjoyment, and of her conversation I never grow weary.”

“Thank you for the compliment, dear,” said Mrs. Cunningham—“and we will settle the question at another time.”

One of the first persons Julia distinguished amid the company, as she entered Mrs. Parker's drawing-room, was Mrs. Cunningham, who gave her a nod, and an exulting smile, as much as to say—“you see I have carried the day!” Julia had endeavored to arm herself for this evening's trial, should Miss Eldon make one of the company; and accordingly she was not surprised, and not much moved, when she saw her husband conversing with that young lady. She was too delicate in feeling, too refined in manner, to watch them, even long enough to catch the expression of Mr. Westbury's face; but resolutely turning her eyes another way, she endeavored to enter into conversation with the persons near her.

Mr. Westbury had not been in Mrs. Parker's drawing-room half an hour, ere Miss Eldon contrived to place herself in such a situation as to render it impossible for him to avoid addressing her; and this point once gained, to escape from her was impracticable. A strong sense of honor alone led him to wish to escape, as to be near her was to him the most exquisite happiness; but the greater the delight, the more imminent the danger; of this he was sensible, and it was not without some resistance that he yielded to her fascination. Could she once secure his attention, Miss Eldon well knew how to get at his heart; and at those moments when she was sure that no ear heard, and no eye observed her but his own, she let an occasional touch of the penserosa mingle so naturally with her half subdued sprightliness, as to awaken, in all their original strength, those feelings, and those regrets, he was striving to subdue. For the time he forgot every thing but that they mutually loved, and were mutually unhappy. They had been standing together a considerable length of time when they were joined by Mr. Cunningham, who abruptly remarked—

“You don't enjoy yourself this evening, Westbury.”

“What makes you think so?” Mr. Westbury inquired.

“You look worn out, just as I feel,” answered Mr. Cunningham. “How strange it is,” he added, “that married men will ever suffer themselves to be drawn into such crowds!”

“Why not married men, as well as bachelors?” asked Miss Eldon.

“Because they relinquish real happiness and comfort, for a fatiguing pleasure—if pleasure it can be called,” answered Cunningham. “One's own hearth and one's own wife, is the place, and the society, for unalloyed enjoyment. Am I not right, Westbury?”

Miss Eldon turned her eyes on Mr. Westbury, as she waited to hear his answer, and an expression, compounded of curiosity, contempt, and satisfaction, met his eye. It was the first time he had ever remarked an unlovely, an unamiable expression on her countenance. He calmly replied to Mr. Cunningham—

“Unquestionably the pleasures of domestic life are the most pure, the most rational, that can be enjoyed.”

“O, it is strange,” said Mr. Cunningham, “that any one can willingly exchange them for crowded rooms, and pestilential vapors, such as we are now inhaling! There is nothing to be gained in such a company as this. Take any dozen, or half dozen of them by themselves, and you might stand some chance to be entertained and instructed; but bring them all together, and each one seems to think it a duty to give himself up to frivolity and nonsense. I doubt whether there have been a hundred sensible words uttered here to-night, except by yonder circle, of which Mrs. Westbury seems to be the centre. There seems to be something like rational conversation there.”

Mr. Westbury turned his eyes, and saw that Julia was surrounded by the elite of the party—who all seemed to be listening with pleased attention to a conversation that was evidently carried on between herself and Mr. Eveleth, a gentleman who was universally acknowledged as one of the first in rank and talent in the city. For a minute Mr. Westbury suffered his eyes to rest on Julia. Her cheek was suffused with the beautiful carmine tint of modesty, and her eyes were beaming with intellectual light—while over her features was spread a slight shade of care, as if the heart were not perfectly at ease. “She certainly looks very well,” was Mr. Westbury's thought; and his feeling was one of gratified pride, that she who was inevitably his wife, did not find her proper level amongst the light, the vain, and the frivolous.

“You have been delightfully attentive to your wife, this evening, my dear,” said Mrs. Cunningham to her husband, as soon as they were seated in their carriage on their way home.

“I am not sensible of having neglected you, Lucy,” said Mr. Cunningham.

“No—I suppose not; nor of having been very attentive to another!”

“I certainly am not. To whom do you allude?”

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “that Mr. Westbury is equally unconscious of having had his attention engrossed by any particular individual.”

“You surely cannot mean that I was particularly attentive to Miss Eldon, Lucy?”

“O, how could I mean so?” said Mrs. Cunningham, with a kind of laugh that expressed any thing rather than pleasure, or good humor. “I really wonder how you came to recollect having seen such a person as Miss Eldon to-night!”

“Your remark concerning Westbury brought her to my mind,” said Mr. Cunningham.

“How strange!” said his wife, “And how extreme that young lady's mortification must have been, that she could not detain two newly married gentlemen near her for more than an hour and a half at one time! Seriously, Mr. Cunningham, the company must have thought that you and Westbury were striving which should do her most homage.”

“And seriously, my dear Lucy,” said Mr. Cunningham, taking the hand of his wife, which she reluctantly permitted him to detain—“seriously, it was merely accidental that I spoke to Miss Eldon this evening. There is not a person on earth to whose society and conversation I am more completely indifferent—so, take no offence, love, where none was meant. There is no one whose conversation can compensate me for the loss of yours; and it is one reason why I so much dislike these crowds, that, for a time, they necessarily separate us from each other.”

The following morning, Mrs. Cunningham called on Mrs. Westbury, who, at the moment of her arrival happened to be in her chamber—but she instantly descended to receive her visitor. When Mrs. Westbury left the parlor a short time previous, her husband was there; but he had disappeared, and she supposed he had gone out. He was, however, in the library, which adjoined the parlor, and the door between the two rooms was not quite closed. After the compliments of the morning, Mrs. Westbury remarked—

“I was somewhat surprised to see you at Mrs. Parker's last evening.”

“Surprised! why so?”

“You recollect the conversation that took place on the subject, the morning I was at your house?”

“O, yes—I remember that Mr. Cunningham was giving a kind of dissertation on the superior pleasures of one's own chimney-corner. Really, I wish he did not love home quite so well—though I don't despair of teaching him, by and by, to love society.”

“Can it be possible that you really regret your husband's attachment to home?” asked Mrs. Westbury.

“Yes, certainly—when it interferes with my going out. A man and his wife may surely enjoy enough of each other's society, and yet see something of the world. At any rate, I shall teach Ned, that I am not to be made a recluse for any man!”

“Have you no fears, my dear Mrs. Cunningham,” said Mrs. Westbury, “that your want of conformity to your husband's taste, will lessen your influence over him?”

“And of what use is this influence,” asked Mrs. Cunningham, “unless it be exerted to obtain the enjoyments I love?”

“O, pray beware,” said Mrs. Westbury, with much feeling,—“beware lest you sacrifice your happiness for a chimera! Beware how you trifle with so invaluable a treasure as the heart of a husband!”

“Pho—pho—how serious you are growing,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Actually warning and exhorting at twenty years of age! What a preacher you will be, by the time you are forty! But now be honest, and confess that you, yourself, would prefer a ball or a party, to sitting alone here through a stupid evening with Westbury.”

“Then to speak truth,” said Julia, “I should prefer an evening at home to all the parties in the world—balls I never attend, and do not think stupidity necessary, even with no other companion than one's own husband.”

“Then why do you attend parties if you do not like them?”

“Because Mr. Westbury thinks it proper that I should.”

“And so you go to him, like miss to her papa and mamma to ask him what you must do?” said Mrs. Cunningham, laughing. “This is delightful, truly! But for my part, I cannot see why I have not as good a right to expect Edward to conform to my taste and wishes, as he has to expect me to conform to his. And so Westbury makes you go, whether you like to or not?”

“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Westbury. “I never expressed to him my aversion to going, not wishing him to feel as if I were making a great sacrifice, in complying with his wishes.”

“Well, that is pretty, and dutiful, and delicate,” said Mrs. Cunningham, laughing again. “But I don't set up for a pattern wife, and if Edward and I get along as well as people in general, I shall be satisfied. But to turn to something else. How do you like Miss Eldon?”

“I am not at all acquainted with her,” said Julia.

“You have met her several times,” said Mrs. Cunningham.

“Yes, but have never conversed with her. Her appearance is greatly in her favor; I think her very beautiful.”

“She is called so,” said Mrs. Cunningham; “but some how I don't like her looks. To tell the plain truth, I can't endure her, she is so vain, and artful, and self-complacent.”

“I have not the least acquaintance with her,” repeated Julia; “but it were a pity so lovely a face should not be accompanied by an amiable heart. Are you much acquainted with her?”

“Not personally. Indeed I never conversed with her for ten minutes in my life.”

“Then you may be mistaken in thinking her vain and artful,” said Mrs. Westbury.

“O, I've seen enough to satisfy me fully as to that point,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “When a young lady exerts herself to engross the attention of newly married men, and when she looks so self-satisfied at success, I want nothing more. She can have no delicacy of feeling—she must be a coquette of the worst kind.”

It was now Mrs. Westbury's turn to change the subject of conversation, and simply remarking—“that we should be extremely careful how we judge of character hastily”—she asked some question that drove Miss Eldon from Mrs. Cunningham's mind. Soon after the visitor departed, and Julia returned to her chamber.

In the evening when Mr. Westbury came in, he found Julia reading, but she immediately laid down her book, and resumed her work. She thought it quite as impolite to pursue the solitary pleasure of reading while her husband was sitting by, as to have done so with any other companion; and she knew no reason why he was not as much entitled to civility as a stranger, or common acquaintance. It was not long before Mr. Westbury inquired “what book had engaged her attention.” It was Dr. Russel's Palestine.

“It is a delightful work,” said Julia. “I have just read an extract from Chateaubriand, that I think one of the most elegant passages I ever met with.”

“I should like to hear it,” said Mr. Westbury. Julia opened her book, and the passage lost none of its beauty by her reading. She read the following:—

“When you travel in Judea the heart is at first filled with profound melancholy. But when, passing from solitude to solitude, boundless space opens before you, this feeling wears off by degrees, and you experience a secret awe, which, so far from depressing the soul, imparts life, and elevates the genius. Extraordinary appearances everywhere proclaim a land teeming with miracles. The burning sun, the towering eagle, the barren fig-tree, all the poetry, all the pictures of Scripture are here. Every name commemorates a mystery, every grotto announces a prediction, every hill re-echoes the accents of a prophet. God himself has spoken in these regions, dried up rivers, rent the rocks, and opened the grave. The desert still appears mute with terror, and you would imagine that it had never presumed to interrupt the silence, since it heard the awful voice of the Eternal.”

Julia closed the volume, and Mr. Westbury, after bestowing just praise on the extract she had read, took up the work, and proposed to read to her if she would like it. She thanked him, and an hour was very pleasantly spent in this manner. A little time was occupied in remarking on what had been read, when, after a short silence, Mr. Westbury inquired of Julia, “whether she saw much of Mrs. Cunningham.”

“Not a great deal,” was Julia's answer.

“She was here this morning?” said Mr. Westbury. “She was,” replied Julia.

“Do you intend to be intimate with her?” inquired Mr. Westbury.

“I have no intention about it;” said Julia—“but presume I never shall, as I fear our views and tastes will prove very discordant.”

“I am happy to hear you say so,” said Mr. Westbury. “I am not prepossessed in her favor, and greatly doubt whether an intimacy with her would be salutary. Such a person as I conceive her to be, should be nothing more than an acquaintance.”

Nothing more was added on the subject, and Julia wondered, though she did not ask, what had given her husband so unfavorable an impression of Mrs. Cunningham's character. The truth was, he overheard the conversation of the morning, which he would have frankly confessed to his wife, but for a kind of delicacy to her feelings, as he had heard her remarks as well as those of Mrs. Cunningham. He knew that it was not quite honorable to listen to a conversation without the knowledge of the parties; but he could not close the library door without betraying his proximity; he wished not to see Mrs. Cunningham; he therefore remained quiet, and heard their whole colloquy.

A few days after this circumstance occurred, an invitation to another party was received. Mr. Westbury looked at the card first, and handing it to Julia, said:

“I would have you act your pleasure with regard to accepting this invitation.”

“It will be my pleasure,” said Julia, hesitating and coloring a little—“it will be my pleasure to consult yours.”

“I have little choice about it,” said Mr. Westbury, “and if you prefer declining to accepting it, I would have you do so.”

“Shall you attend it?” asked Julia, while a shade of anxiety passed over her features.

“Certainly not unless you do,” Mr. Westbury replied.

“Then,” said Julia, “if it be quite as agreeable to you, I had a thousand times rather spend it at home, alone with”—she checked herself, colored crimson, and left the sentence unfinished.

The morning after the levee, Mrs. Westbury was favored with another call from Mrs. Cunningham.

“Why, on earth were you not at Mrs. B——'s last night?” asked she almost as soon as she entered the house. “You can imagine nothing more splendid and delightful than every thing was.”

“You were there then?” said Julia.

“Yes, certainly—though I went quite late. Edward was sick of a violent head-ache, and I was obliged to see him safely in bed before I could go; but nothing would have tempted me to miss it.”

“How is Mr. Cunningham this morning?” Julia inquired.

“Much better—though rather languid, as is usual after such an attack. But I came in on an errand this morning, and must despatch business, as I am somewhat in haste. Mrs. T—— is to give a splendid party next week—by the way, have you received a card yet?”

“I have not,” said Julia.

“Neither have I—but we both shall. I want to prepare a dress for the occasion, and came in to look at the one you wore to Mrs. Parker's, as I think of having something like it.”

Mrs. Westbury was about to ring the bell, and have the dress brought for her visitor's inspection, but Mrs. Cunningham stopt her by saying,

“No, no—do not send for it. Let me go with you to your wardrobe, I may see something else that I like.”

Mrs. Westbury complied, and they went up stairs together. Mrs. Cunningham was delightfully free in examining the articles exposed to her view, and expressed such warm admiration of many of them, such an ardent desire to possess the like, that it was rather difficult to forbear telling her they were at her service. The blond mantle, with a blue border, struck her fancy particularly, and Mrs. Westbury begged her to accept it, saying “that she should probably never wear it again, as the color was not a favorite with her husband.”

Mrs. Cunningham hastened home, delighted with her acquisition, and immediately hastened to the chamber, to which her husband was still confined by indisposition, to display to him her prize.

“See what a beautiful little affair that dear Mrs. Westbury has given me,” she cried. “How lucky for me that Mr. Westbury don't like blue, else I should not have got it, I suppose, though, she could spare this, and fifty other things, as well as not. Why, Edward, you don't know what a delightful wardrobe she has! Really, you must indulge me a little more in this way, I believe.”

“I am sure no one looks better dressed than yourself, Lucy,” said Mr. Cunningham, in a languid voice.

The southern literary messenger, Vol. II., No. 7, June, 1836

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

EVERY DEPARTMENT OF

LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 7

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

RIGHT OF INSTRUCTION1