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THE ALBUM.

'Tis not in mortals to command success.-Addison.

"UNGALLANT!—unmilitary!" exclaimed the beautiful Orinda Melbourne to her yet unprofessed lover, Lieutenant Sunderland, as in the decline of a summer afternoon, they sat near an open window in the north-west parlour of Mr. Cozzens's house at West Point, where as yet there was no hotel— "And do you steadily persist in refusing to write in my Album? Really, you deserve to be dismissed the service for unofficer-like conduct."

"I have forsworn Albums," replied Sunderland, "and for, at least, a dozen reasons. In the first place, the gods have not made me poetical."

"Ah!" interrupted Miss Melbourne, "you remind me of the well-known story of the mayor of a French provincial town, who informed the king

that the worthy burgesses had fifteen reasons for not doing themselves the honour of firing a salute on his majesty's arrival: the first reason being, that they had no cannon."

"A case in point," remarked Sunderland.

"Well," resumed Orinda, "I do not expect you to surpass the glories of Byron and Moore."

"Nothing is more contemptible than mediocre poetry," observed Sunderland; "the magazines and souvenirs have surfeited the world with it."

"I do not require you to be even mediocre," persisted the young lady. "Give me something ludicrously bad, and I shall prize it almost as highly as if it were seriously good. I need not remind you of the hacknied remarks, that extremes meet, and that there is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous. Look at this Ode to West Point, written in my Album by a very obliging cadet, a room-mate of my brother's. It is a perfect gem. How I admire these lines,

"The steam-boat up the river shoots
While Willis on his bugle toots.""

"Wo to the man," said Sunderland, “who subjects his poetical reputation to the ordeal of a lady's Album, where all, whether gifted or ungifted, are expected to do their best."

"You are mistaken," replied Orinda; “ that expectation has long since gone by. We have found, by experience, that, either from negligence or perverseness, gentlemen are very apt to write their worst in our Albums."

"I do not wonder at it," said Sunderland. "However, I must retrieve my character as a knight of chivalry. Appoint me any other task, and I will pledge myself to perform your bidding. Let your request 'take any shape but that, and my firm nerves shall never tremble.'"

"But why this inveterate horror of Albums?" asked Orinda. "Have you had any experience in them?"

"I have to my sorrow," replied Sunderland. "With me, I am convinced, the course of Albums never will run smooth.' For instance, I once, by means of an Album, lost the lady of my love, (I presume not to say the love of my lady.")

Orinda looked up and looked down, and "a change came o'er the spirit of her face:" which change was not unnoticed by her yet undeclared admirer, whose acquaintance with Miss Melbourne commenced on a former visit she had made to West Point to see her brother, who was one of the cadets of the Military Academy.

Orinda Melbourne was now in her twenty-first

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year, at her own disposal, (having lost both her parents,) and mistress of considerable property, a great part of which had been left to her by an aunt. She resided in the city of New York, with Mr. and Mrs. Ledbury, two old and intimate friends of her family, and they had accompanied her to West Point. was universally considered a very charming girl, and by none more so than by Lieutenant Sunderland. But hearing that Miss Melbourne had declined the addresses of several very unexceptionable gentlemen, our hero was trying to delay an explicit avowal of his sentiments, till he should discover some reason to hope that the disclosure would be favourably received.

Like most other men on similar occasions, he gave a favourable interpretation to the emotion involuntarily evinced by the young lady on hearing him allude to his former flame.

There was a pause of a few moments, till Orinda rallied, and said with affected carelessness-" You may as well tell me the whole story, as we seem to have nothing better to talk of."

"Well, then," proceeded Sunderland, "during one of my visits to the city, I met with a very pretty young lady from Brooklyn. Her name is of course unmentionable, but I soon found myself, for the first time in my life, a little in love"

"I suspect it was not merely a little," remarked Orinda, with a penetrating glance-"It is said, that in love the first fit is always the strongest."

“No, no,” exclaimed Sunderland; "I deny the truth of that opinion. It is a popular fallacy--I know it is"-fixing his eyes on Orinda.

At that minute the young officer would have given a year's pay to be certain whether the glow that heightened Miss Melbourne's complexion was a bona fide blush, or only the reflection of the declining sunbeams as they streamed from under a dark cloud that was hovering over the western hills. However, after a few moments consideration, he again interpreted favourably.

"Proceed, Mr. Sunderland," said Orinda in rather a tremulous voice; "tell me all the particulars."

"Of the Album I will," replied he. "Well then -this young lady was one of the belles of Brooklyn, and certainly very handsome."

"Of what colour were her eyes and hair?" inquired Orinda.

"Light-both very light."

Orinda, who was a brunette, caught herself on the point of saying that she had rarely seen much expression in the countenance of a blonde; but she checked the remark, and Sunderland proceeded.

"The lady in question had a splendidly bound Al

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