she had no comfort to offer her dying child, in this last conflict of dissolving nature. It was for this world she had lived herself, it was for this world she had taught her to live, but for that untravelled world beyond, she had no guiding hand to extend. It was to a stranger's face the fading eyes of Ellen were directed. It was a stranger's prayers that hallowed her passage to the tomb. The realities of eternity for the first time pressed home, on that vain mother's heart. She felt, too, that she must one day die, and that earth with all its riches and pleasures could yield her no support in that awful moment. That there was something which earth could not impart, which had power to soothe and animate the departing spirit, she knew by the angelic expression of Ellen's upturned eyes, and by the look of unutterable serenity that was diffused over her whole countenance. The voice of Mr. M**** died away on her ear and an unbroken silence reigned through the apartment. Her stormy grief had been stilled into calmness, during that holy prayer. The eyes of Ellen were now gently closed, and as they rose from their knees they sat down by her side, fearing even by a deepdrawn breath, to disturb her slumbers. A faint hope began to dawn in the mother's heart, from the placidity and duration of her slumbers. "I have never known her sleep so calm before," said she, in a low voice to Mr. M ****. Mr. M**** bent forward and laid his hand softly on her marble brow. "Calm indeed are her slumbers," said he, looking solemnly upward," she sleeps now, I trust, in the bosom of her Saviour and her God." Thus died Ellen Loring-just one year from that night when Agnes followed her retreating figure, with such a wistful gaze, as she left her for the ball-room, exclaiming to herself, "Happy, beautiful Ellen," and Agnes now said within herself, even while she wept over her clay cold form, "Happy Ellen!" but with far different emotions; for she now followed with the eye of faith, her ascending spirit to the regions of the blest, and saw her, in imagination, enter those golden gates, which never will be closed against the humble and penitent believer. A few evenings after, a brilliant party was assembled in one of those halls, where pleasure welcomes its votaries.-" Did you know that Ellen Loring was dead?" observed some one, to a beautiful girl, the very counterpart of what Ellen once was. "Dead!" exclaimed the startled beauty, for one moment alarmed into reflection, "I did not think she would have died so soon. I am sorry you told me it will throw a damp over my spirits the whole eveningpoor Ellen!" It was but a moment, and the music breathed forth its joyous strains. She was led in haste to the dance, and Ellen Loring was forgotten. Written for the Lady's Book. INTROVERSION; OR, MAGICAL READINGS OF THE INNER MAN. BY WILLIAM CUTTER. If every man's internal care Were written on his brow, WHAT an appalling thought! yet how amusing and But the subject is growing serious. I said it was amusing, and it behooves me to make it out so. When I made the remark. I was not thinking of my. self. I confess there would be no fun at all in show. ing up myself, inside out. I would rather act upon the advice of that excellent poet, Robie Burns, who cunningly says to his young friend, "Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection; But keek through every ither man It was that "ither man" that I was thinking of. Do his brow. Self complacency like a peacock!—va nity that would swim a modern politician!-A love of admiration that would put Narcissus to the blush! and envy of the good smiles and good will won by others, that is absolutely consuming him like an inward fire! Poor fellow! I do pity him—though but a moment ago, I was envying him his easy grace and nonchalance. A hundred times, I have heard others remark, as he passed, "What a happy dog that must be-contented as an oyster-cares for nobody— independent as a lord-(that, allow me to say in passing, is a great mistake—a lord is the least independent man living, unless it be a king; the proper reading is-independent as a loafer)—alas! little did such shallow observers know what was in the man! But look! there is another man just coming over the way. Short, active, bustling, irritable-he seems to have a world of business on his shoulders, and not half time to do it in. Every thing seems at stake upon the present moment. He flies from one to another, asks half a question of each, waits not an answer from either, and so drives on. What an immense business he must have! How I should like to wield his capital, and share his profits! But staywhat says that illuminated tablet on his forehead? His story is not an uncommon one-a briefless lawyer, hungry for business, and trying to secure it by making it appear that he has already more than he can attend to. Here comes my particular friend, Henry Morton. He is absolutely the noblest fellow I ever saw, openhearted, generous, liberal, he will do any thing in the world to serve a friend. And such is his uncommon regard and affection for me, I am sure he would risk his life to save mine. It was in my power once to do him a great service, and his gratitude seems to know no bounds. I have never had occasion to call for a similar service from him before; but, being fairly "cornered" this morning, I sent to him to say that the loan of a few hundreds would accom modate me exceedingly. I have no doubt he is coming to bring it to me. "Good morning, my dear Harry, let me present you to my friend, Mr. Browreader, of Phrenological Hall. I was sorry to trouble you this morning, Harry, but was desperate short, and did not know where else to look." "And I am very sorry, too, Edward, that it is out of my power to accommodate you. I have been greatly disappointed in my receipts, and shall have to borrow for myself, unless something more comes in. Nothing would give me more pleasure, if it were in my power to serve you. I hope it will not be so again with me, when you are in want. Good morning." "Dunder and blixum! Did you read that brow, Charles?" "No, I was taken up with watching the changing expression of yours, so that I had no time to look at your friend's. What did it say?" man. "My friend's, indeed! Never say that again of any The truth telling tablet on his brow said, that he was inwardly chuckling over his peculiar good fortune, in collecting the whole of an old and doubtful debt, which had placed him in funds to anticipate all the payments of the month, so that he had made up his mind to start this evening for Saratoga and the Lakes, on a tour of recreation. But never mind that-hypocrisy is an every day matter in every circle." Yesterday I was at the Chapel, in street. Directly before me, sat a venerable looking man, with a few straggling locks of long white hair carefully braided over the shining head that had lost its natural covering. My position was such that I had a full view of his face during the greater part of the service. He bore his part in it all with the utmost apparent solemnity and sincerity; and I certainly should have set him down as an admirable example of pure patriarchal piety, and warm-hearted undivided devotion, if I had not-unfortunately, perhaps, for mebeen compelled by my position to read the strange revelations of his tell-tale brow. There I saw the record of his busy soul, which was wholly given to Mammon. Ships and Voyages, Instalments and Dividends, Rents and Interest, Profit and Loss, stood out in bold relief. "What comfortable looking, smooth-faced, smiling old gentleman is that, taking his ease in that beautiful barouche? Do you know him, Charles ?" "Yes, very well-and so do you. It is the millionare, whose property has grown so rapidly during the last few years, that he has found it difficult to know what to do with it. He is the envy of half the city for his princely wealth, and his princely style of living." "He certainly may be happy. He looks so easy and comfortable, I have no doubt he is so. But see the barouche has stopped for a few moments, let us go a little nearer, and see what the handwriting on the wall of his soul will reveal to us." Strange! strange indeed! Even this man is dissatisfied and envious. At the very moment when we were admiring the air of comfort and ease with which he seemed to enjoy his splendid barouche, he was inwardly cursing himself, because he was not as rich as Astor, and resolving to leave no effort untried to rival even him. Just as the barouche drove on, four or five dashing young fellows came up, talking and laughing very loud, and apparently in the highest spirits. You would have thought they had never known care or trouble. And, by way of a relieving shade to the singular brightness of the group, two or three half clad, half-starved beggars stood near them, wondering how any body could be so happy in so miserable a world, and questioning the goodness of Providence in making such sad distinctions. We approached the mirthful group, to continue our lesson in heart-reading. They were profuse and eloquent in praise of what they had done, seen and enjoyed, that day. Each seemed to vie with the others, to express, in the strongest terms, his deep and entire satisfaction with all the circumstances, appointments and results of their frolic, vowing an eternal remembrance of the day and its events. Troubled with my morning's business, disappointed in some very important expectations, I began to feel some emotions of envy, in witnessing such an exhibi tion of seemingly unalloyed human happiness. As I caught a glimpse, however, of the frontal transparency, now of one and now of another, of this merry company, my feelings and reflections were suddenly changed. We had looked upon the scene in silence, but my friend had evidently passed through the same fluctuations with myself. And when, as we passed round the circle, and read upon the brow of one "twenty dollars abstracted from my employer's money drawer"-upon another, "left at home an affectionate indulgent mother, at the point of death, and requiring my attentions"-upon a third, “an ample patrimony now wasted to the last farthing in these scenes of dissipation and debauchery"—and so upon each, some withering sentence of guilt and condemnation, and utter misery within;-we exchanged mutual looks of congratulation, that, with all our cares and trials, our sufferings were not those of self-reproach, and a consciousness of deserved infamy. But again our subject is getting too grave. It is not half so amusing as I imagined. My groups have been unfortunately selected, or I have read too deeply the secret lore of their thoughts. Let us try another field. There is a fashionable lady. She is fashionably made-just the air and figure to make a show in Broadway-and fashionably dressed-as perfectly so as the best mantuamakers and milliners in the city are capable of doing. She is beautiful, too, very beautiful-and young, and rich. She is intelligent and well educated, as far as the mind is concerned; and, if the education of the heart had been as carefully attended to as that of the mind, what a paragon of a woman this fresh, young beautiful girl might be! And how happy too! But is she not happy now? She has no notes to pay, no money to borrow, no delinquent debtors to dun, no anxiety about rents or dividends, bank stocks or cottons, or bills of exchange-in fine none of the ills that man is heir to. She must be happy. Let us look at the index. Alas! there is a shadow on it, long, deep and dark. It tells of disappointed love of the young buds of affection too early trampled and crushed. "She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, till her worthless lover, abused her confidence, and left her to pine in a loneliness of heart, embittered by wounded pride and self-reproach, which the world of heartless worshippers about her know nothing of. What a beautiful smile kindles about her lips as she gracefully salutes her friend, Mrs. Morris, and kindly inquires of the health of her family! The wife and the mother, though many years older, is scarcely less lovely than her young and fashionable friend. What a brilliant intelligent eye! What a rich complexion! What a musical voice! What a womanly grace and dignity! What purity of feeling and elevation of thought! Her husband is the most elegant man in the city, wealthy, intelligent, learned, high in the confidence and respect of the people. Her children are young and happy about her, and she-surely she must be happy, too. Truly, every heart knoweth its own bitterness, and hers has begun to find that there is wormwood and gall where she least expected it. Her husband, her idol, is a ruined man, and the keen eye of a woman's true heart has discovered and wept tears of blood over his inevitable fall, before the world has seen ought to provoke even the whisper of slander. His hospitalities and popularity have de stroyed him. He has tasted so often, and drank so deeply the poisoned cup, that taste and passion have taken the reins from judgment, and he loves what he once feared, and seeks in secret what he once took only as matter of form. "Something very serious, I assure you, and if true, it will blast their characters for ever. But as I have been admitted somewhat confidentially into their secrets, I am not at liberty to say much about it. I beg you will not expose what I have said, for it will naturally be attributed to me, in consequence of my known familiarity with the parties." "Never fear me, Sam, I am as tight as a chip basket." "But do you know much of the circumstances?" "More than I can stop to tell. Good morning." "Hold! I have a word more for you." "Thank you; I am too much occupied for it now." There, did you read the tale of truth on his brow, that gave the lie so pointedly to his tongue? He knows nothing of the scandal of which he claims to be the confidential depositary, but is dying to learn the particulars, that he may have something to talk about. He thought he could have wormed the story out of me, by appearing to know all about it already, and leaving me to feel that I should be divulging no secret, if I should speak to him freely about it. Perhaps the ruse might have put me off my guard, if I had not seen the magic writing on his forehead. The pageant passes on-and here is another subject. A man about midway between youth and manhood, whom I have known intimately for some years. He is of a very light, cheerful, elastic temperament, always seemingly happy, because always looking on the bright side of every thing that is dark, gloomy, or doubtful. He has a remarkable tact for discovering a bright side where nothing of the kind would be discernible by others, so much so that some of his friends have supposed his mind must be gifted with a new faculty-somewhat like that which Plato attributed to the eye-of emitting light to see by. I confess I have sometimes been half inclined to that opinion myself, and have thought, in reference to my light-hearted, happy friend, of Moore's description of one of the daughters of men, for whom the culprit angel was suffered to entertain an unlawful passion, "walking in light of her own making." You see how bright and hopeful his countenance-how cheerful and active his mind! You would certainly suppose there was nothing about him but smooth sunny waters, But, after all, in spite of my assurances and efforts, nothing above him but peaceful skies, nothing before the subject will not be amusing. There is an invehim but promise and hope! But look again. The terate gravity about it, that begins to look vastly like magic tablet is illuminated, and the secret of the a constitutional disease. Let us get out of Broadheart is written there. This very day, one of his way, and try its virtues in some more retired place. most promising schemes has fallen through. He has Agreed! Here is the office of the Daily suffered a severe, an almost ruinous loss, and he cannot yet see how he is to escape bankruptcy, and perhaps reproach? His conscious integrity, and calm abiding hopefulness will sustain him; but he is suffer. ing inwardly what few men of his sensibility could endure. Every body knows Sam Phillips-and here he comes, as if on purpose to afford us the very contrast we want, by which to try our philosophy. He is apparently the most vain, self-satisfied chatterbox the world ever knew. He knows every body and every body's business. He talks with the authority of a book upon every subject, spinning out into the most attenuated threads of small talk, the little he does actually know, till it is a matter of wonder to every one how it holds together. The world's opinion of him is, that he is perfectly satisfied with himself, and does not even dream that the field of human know. ledge has any other boundary than the walls of his own capacious mind. The Editor is cyphering out the returns of late elec tions, and calculating the chances. Just look over his shoulder at the flaming thrice repeated hurra, with which he has commenced his paragraph. And now look at the tell tale record on his brow-" Loss, loss on every side-defeat is certain, and I-I shall lose that glorious salary which-" Poor fellow! leave him to fate. "How are you? Bixby-glad to see you-hear you have made a glorious operation in cotton." "Yes, yes-glorious indeed-one more such a hit, and I am fixed and can retire." Marginal reading on the brow-Fixed truly-in just such a fix as there is no way to get out of, but to RETIRE into the night shade of bankruptcy. Well now, is there no way to make a laugh out of this subject to raise one poor smile upon the daily quarrels of the human heart, with the human face divine? Shall we go a dinner party, or to a ball room-to a wedding, or to the funeral of a rich Written for the Lady's Book. SOME THOUGHTS ON WORKS OF FICTION. A writer whose views are generally correct, has late- Now, let it be acknowledged that a positive moral tendency in works of fiction is indeed a most excellent circumstance, and that immorality is such a fault as no good qualities can redeem; still it must be apparent to every one who considers the subject, that the writer of fiction is usually bent on producing a couple of entertaining volumes, and if he succeed in this, decorously and in good taste-he thinks he has done as much as could reasonably be expected from him. We know that few persons take up a novel for the purpose of receiving instruction of any kind from its pages; amusement is all that is sought by the reader, and, (generally speaking,) all that is intended by the writer;-and if these two parties are satisfied with each other, all interference must be considered as idle and impertinent. If the chief design of such an author were to afford moral instruction, he would, most probably, defeat his own object :-for his book would not pass currently among a great majority of readers, and, being but little read, it would not be likely to do much good. This gives evidence of an unfortunate state of things, it is true; but so it is, and it cannot be remedied. We must take the world as we find it, and act accordingly, even when we wish to produce beneficial effects. The novel of Defoe, called "Religious Court ship," and another called "Thornton Abbey," are excellent works, having not only a moral but a religious tendency; the design of the author is apparent on every page, and, undoubtedly for this very reason, the books were never popular. If people are to be cheated into instruction, it must be done cautiously. The medicine must be well disguised; for if once detected, it becomes more distasteful than if offered in its original purity. But the medicine has sometimes been disguised by such ingredients as made it absolutely pernicious. Novelists have, (with the evident intention to do good,) produced such works as are certainly injurious. Richardson is one of this class. His paragons, Grandison, Clarissa, &c., have that kind of perfection which every moulder in plaister gives to his Cupids and Psyches. They are intrinsically correct, and so far blameless; but they are unnatural; and thus, as images of men and women, they are intolerable. There is but little imagination or skill displayed in the delineation of such perfect characters; but the genuine artist is content with adhering to nature, and his genius becomes conspicuous even in the represen tation of her faults. Richardson's personages are be yond imitation, and perhaps above our sympathyas they can scarcely be conceived to exist in that class of beings with which we have a community of feeling. If he succeeds in impressing the inexperi enced with a belief in the possibility of such existences, he does harm; for his pupils must be disappointed, and thus they will become disgusted with human nature, as they find it in real life. When young people begin the world with exalted notions of the human character, they are either ensnared to their ruin, or, discovering the fallacy of their expectations, they become misanthropes. This fact affords grounds for one of the strongest objections which may be brought against novels in general, and the productions of such authors as Richardson are es pecially liable to that kind of censure. A lady once remarked that the perusal of "Sir Charles Grandison" was the most deplorable circumstance of her life; expecting to find some counterpart to this piece of imaginary perfection, she had refused several advantageous offers of marriage, and afterwards lived long enough to repent of her folly. As Richardson has been cited as a model, and that by a man whose opinions on most subjects are valuable, let us glance at one of this author's productions, which is probably more read in these days than any other work he has bequeathed us. I speak of "Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded." What is the moral tendency of this book, which, above all other similar works, professes to have been written for the encouragement of virtue? Many of its scenes are shocking to a mind of the least delicacy;—it abounds with descriptions which, of all things in the world, are the last I should have suspected of being conducive to virtuous resolutions. The great point of morality on which the whole story depends is, that the heroine is at length rewarded. Rewarded!-how? Why by becoming the wife of a professed libertine, a desperately wicked fellow, who is guilty of more evil practices than a pilgrimage to Loretto would expiate; and who, even after marriage, gives good reason to suspect that Pamela does not possess his undivided affections. Titled relatives, and a large fortune sanctify every excess in this gentleman's conduct, or at least make mere pecadilloes of those offences for which, according to our views, the state's prison would scarcely be an adequate punishment. And, to show how virtue is rewarded, Mr. Richardson, after detailing the startling adventures of the gallant Mr. B, unites him in marriage to the beautiful, the gifted, the saintly, the unparalleled Pamela!—In the contemplation of this union, we detest one of the parties and pity the other. If the author could have contrived to send Mr. B. to Newgate, and then made a nuptual arrangement between Pamela and Mr. Williams, (the lover whom she jilts rather unmercifully,) the morality of the tale would certainly have been improved. What very erroneous notions some people must have concerning the morality of certain novels!Many works which are placed unscrupulously in the |