MAN'S LOVE AND MAN'S CONSTANCY.

I think you will agree with me that the happiness or misery of mankind depends in a great measure upon the deportment and fidelity of women, and I think that where unhappiness exists, it may not unfrequently be traced to the weakness and infirmity of our sex. woman should never trifle with the earnest emotions of the heart, and a changeling is my utter aversion. She never can bestow enduring happiness, can never be happy herself, and is most unworthy the affections of any constant man. Frivolous, careless, fickle herself, she knows not the value of an ardent, confiding heart-she never truly loves the current of her feelings is shallow, that it diverges into a thousand different channels; and the vessel of love, unballasted and without guidance by reason or affection, runs aground, and is destroyed at some period or in the outset of the voyage of life. The heart cannot be dealt out in fragments-it should be given wholly or not at all. Bitter is the disappointment of that lover, and great his agony; when he awakes from the delusive dream to which his warm and credulous fancy had lulled him, and finds a cold and icy heart instead of the warm and glowing burst of the passionate feeling-when, in the eyes in which he deemed love had taken up an eternal residence, he sees only a fitful and transient brightness, which is lavished upon all alike and indifferently-when the lips that he imagined would only breathe his name, can, like an instrument, be played upon by all, and utter the same sweet sounds to every one who touches them. A woman who is like the quivering needle before the magnetic influence is imparted to it, who veers to every point, as impulse or caprice fluctuate; and like a vane upon a steeple, changes with the breezes of each hour, who has no rule of conduct but whim, and flirts with a ring of admirers, encouraging all alike, is not only the cause of agony to those who are so unhappy as to own her power, but must be an object of self-contempt, and the certain cause of much self-torture. As precept when based upon example is always more efficacious than mere abstract observations, I will proceed to illustrate what has gone before, by some passages in the career of a young person in whom I once felt a warm interest.

Isabella Herbert was a belle and a beauty. From her infancy everything had been done to spoil her-flattered and humoured by all around her, every wish was gratified, and she ripened into womanhood with a high idea of her own qualities of pleasing, and a total disregard to the thoughts and opinions of others. She had naturally a warm and affectionate disposition, which she squandered with a liberal hand upon every one who came within reach of her influence. Like the sun, she shone on all alike, and all were attracted within the sphere of her beauty, all warmed beneath her charms, and ere she was eighteen years of age, few maidens had so many strings to their bow as Isabella. She was a mistress in the art of deception, for constant practice had made her perfect in all the wiles and mysteries of coquetry. That her flirtations, however, were as sealed volumes to the world as the secrets of her own bosom, is apparent from the fact that Edward Manners thought himself a favourite suitor, and that he had reason to flatter himself that he was the object of her preference. To a person well proportioned, and a manly, intelligent countenance, were added a highly-gifted mind, rich in the qualifications that ornament and give value to his species, and a heart overflowing with every generous and noble emotion. His ideas of female excellence had been formed upon an ideal model of perfection, in which he had blended the accomplishments of all the heroines of poetry and romance. Vain was his search for such a woman; and he had abandoned the idea in disappointment and sadness that a being of such a nature was never created, until accident threw him into the society of Isabella Herbert. He no sooner beheld her than the pent up feelings of his heart, so long concealed and suppressed, broke forth in irresistible force and freshness; and he imagined that, if her qualities of mind were correspondent to her personal charms, he had at length discovered the being for whom he had so long searched in vain, and whose image he had enshrined in his heart as the beau ideal of female, and therefore of human perfection. He loved her devotedly, desperately, madly-she returned it with corresponding warmth and ardour, and they were happy. She would cling to him with an apparent earnestness of sincerity, conveying earnest conviction in every tone and gesture the accents of her sweet voice fell like melting music on his ear-it was a realization of the Veronese Tale in all the bright imagining of bewildering love, and of the delirium of impassioned fancy. How often would they steal away from the world to wander by the banks of some flower-enamelled stream, whose music was the

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lips the confiding and mutual outpourings of their overladen bosoms, and how often, beneath a summer sky, "when stars were holding revelry," and were the only witnesses to their compact, have they sworn to live for each other, and placed their only hopes of earthly happiness in the full assurance and conviction of a reciprocal feeling. At such times she would lay her head upon his bosom, and look into his eyes as if to search the deep recesses of his inmost soul, and to read there the counterpart of the emotions under whose influence her cheeks would flush, and her frame thrill with rapture; while he, clasping her fondly in his arms, gazed upon her with that radiant expression which only kindles in man's eyes ere he has learned the bitterness of unrequited love, and which woman should prize as her dearest triumph, inasmuch as it is her sweetest reward, and the brightest homage that can be paid to her beauty and affections. But I will not detain you, Messrs. Editors, with all the minutia and circumstances of their courtship-how they met and how they parted-for part they did— but not until protestations of eternal love and constancy had been given and received. Affairs of moment compelled his presence abroad, where he remained for many months-but this period of absence was beguiled of a portion of its dreariness by the frequent interchange of letters, all breathing the same affectionate devotedness by which their previous intercourse had been so signalized. How heavily dragged the leaden-footed hours, and how his heart yearned for her society. At length, her letters grew less frequent, and when they did come, their tone was altered. Cold and careless words supplanted the glowing and impassioned language that had marked the beginning of this correspondence, and he began to feel the sinking of an ill-foreboding heart, a loneliness and prostration of mental and bodily energy, for which no reason could be assigned. And were her feelings towards him changed? He could not think it—he doubted everything but Isabella's truth. At last her letters did not come at all-but he accounted for that, by the idea that she must be incapacitated by illness, and he resolved to fly and comfort her, and by his attentions restore her to love and happiness, which he imagined she could only enjoy with him. He stopped at the house of a family who knew her well from her earliest youth, and which he had often visited with her. Under such circumstances it was very natural that she should be the subject of their conversation. Wishing to conceal the extent of the influence she had exercised over him, and not being willing to explain how affairs stood between them, he listened with attention to the sound of her dear name breathed from their dear lips. But what was his mortification and horror, when he learned that instead of a warm, pure, fresh, impassioned heart, that had chosen him for its first and earliest love, Isabella Herbert's had been given away and returned times without number, and in the self-same manner in which he himself had received it! That her name was as familiar as that of a garrison beauty, who has been toasted, admired, and had flirted with all the subalterns of half a dozen regiments. At first, as he listened, his incredulity amounted to a feeling of contempt for his informants-and he shut his ears and his heart to their narration, thinking it a species of sacrilege to her fondly cherished image to listen to such a profanation of her name. But as one circumstance hinged itself upon another, unpleasant thoughts began to arise, until an unpleasant conviction was forced upon his belief.

"Why, bless us, Mr. Manners, Isabella is not likely to give herself much uneasiness for any man. She is a true flirt, and has no more heart than my thimble; she can look unutterable things, but, believe me, she cannot feel them. Why, there was Mr. Dallas; she was in love with him once. Heavens, how she used to hang about him, fling herself into his arms, walk with hers around his waist, kiss him, fondle him, act the menial to him, and what pretty loving things they used to say to another? I never saw two persons so fond! Everybody remarked it—it made quite a talk at the time. What letters they used to write to each other! But somehow she managed to forget him, and turned her attentions and endearments to Mr. Sallows, and then the same scenes were acted over again. I believe you know these two gentlemen, sir? But, bless my soul, what's the matter with you Mr. Manners ?"

Manners sat as if he had been rooted to the spot; the blood forsook his heart, a paleness overspread his countenance, a thickness was rising in his throat, and the wretchedness of his whole life seemed to be condensed into that moment of utter misery and despair. The good woman, struck by the sudden alteration in his looks and bearing, arose to offer him assistance, when he partially recovered himself, and in broken accents begged her to forbear, as it was nothing but a sudden faintness, from which he should soon recover. The blood had no

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'So you know Dallas and Sallows, Mr. Manners. They are extensive manufacturers of some kind. Both nice men in their way, but neither of them will set the river on fire. Do you think they will, sir?"

"I have never thought about them or their concerns, madam," was Manners's somewhat brief rejoinder; but," and as he uttered the question, a slight tinge shot across his brow, "was Miss Herbert so very much attached to them, and was their intercourse of so very intimate a nature as you have described?"

"Oh, sir, I cannot tell you half, but everybody talked about it at the time; if you don't believe me, only ask Harry Meadows, who had a flirtation with her himself, and used to kiss her almost as much as Dallas."

"Kiss her, madam," said Manners; "impossible !"

"Pooh! why, everybody kissed her; her kisses were as cheap and abundant as those sold at the confectioner's."

Manners would hear no more-he rose from his seat, took his hat, and bade her an abrupt adieu. He walked hastily through the village, with a thousand contending emotions at work in his bosom-the principal of which, however, were scorn for the slanders he had listened to, and self-reproach for having, for an instant, wronged the woman he loved by entertaining one suspicion of her faith and constancy. The tumult of his passions, however, arose to such an excess, and his agitation became so intense, that he found it necessary to proceed immediately on his journey. He travelled all night, and when he alighted the next morning at the village of Boxford, he found himself so utterly prostrated that he could not continue his journey. Isabella's long silence, and a thousand trivial circumstances, which singly were nothing, and which he had imagined he had forgotten, but which called up from the recesses of memory, and linked together by connecting events, formed an array of painful and disquieting sensations, which he could not easily dismiss from his mind. The stories he had so recently heard, the doubts and fears which had been so busy with him previous to the commencement of his journey, and for the solution of which that journey was undertaken-all conspired to agonize his feelings and wring his heart to the utmost; so that, when the morning dawned, a raging fever was scorching in his brow, and revelling in his veins. A long and painful sickness ensued; from which, however, he recovered after the lapse of many weeks.

It was at the close of an autumnal day, when the rays of the setting sun in their western slope were lingering upon the quiet vales of S., and throwing a golden flush upon its forests, that blushed beneath the rich colouring with which autumn is invested ere she takes her farewell, and yields to the near approach of winter-when the wind, as it whistles through the sere foliage, shakes the leaves in myriads to the earth, and sighs, as if it were mournfully chanting the requiem of the season-when nature puts on her holiest and most beautiful vesture, and a silent melancholy is hanging over the face of all things, above, below, around—pervading the field, the hill, the valley, and the stream-covering the former with its russet robe of brown, and crisping the waters with her fresh but invigorating breath-that Edward Manners knocked at the well-known portal of the idol of his soul. A cordial welcome greeted him from all the inmates of the dwelling, and it was not until a thousand questions respecting his health and prospects had been answered by him, that he ventured to interrupt the conversation by an inquiry for Isabella. This seemed to occasion some embarrasment, and a long silence ensued, which was broken by the information that she had gone from home, and was not expected to return. The state of his feelings was such that he asked no more about her, until he had an opportunity of speaking to her sister, from whom he learned, that soon after his separation from Isabella, a gentleman of the name of Landseer, visited that part of the country, with whom Isabella, after a short acquaintance, had eloped, and it was supposed, had gone to Italy. Edward Manners received this intelligence with so much composure, that the sister never for a moment suspected how deeply he was interested in her communication -there was a slight flush upon his pallid cheek, that lingered there a moment. and then left it as before. But, oh, the anguish of his heart! that heart that so prized his lost Isabella, in which he had garnered up for her the rich harvest of his hopes and feelings, and which he had brought home to lay at her feet, and to consecrate to her service. Among all her admirers, his sensibilities were the most delicately strung, his soul the most refined, and his love the most sincere. He had entrusted the whole of his happiness to her keeping; and when he discovered that the rich deposit had been consigned to hands regardless of its value, he left the scene of his disappointment, and in other regions and among other society sought out new motives of energy, and fresh inducements to support existence-he toiled on in the pursuits of the world with a cheerful look, but a sered and blighted

heart. The impression of his only attachment could not be effaced, and I believe that I am the sole person on earth to whom he ever confided the brief particulars that I have woven into this sketch. Of Isabella, and the other admirers, I know nothing farther; but I suppose they are all living on, and contented with their lot.

I intended to add another sketch or two, and to accompany them with some reflections arising therefrom; but the length of this communication admonishes me to defer them, and it only remains for me now to subscribe myself, Messrs. Editors, your friend and well-wisher. PORTIA.

WORDS OF KINDNESS.

Oh! how sweet are words of kindness
Flowing from a loving heart;
What on earth can we find sweeter
Than the joy which they impart.
In our sorrow, in our sadness,
Kind words prove a healing balm,
And in life's most adverse tempest
They around us breathe a calm.
Let us never speak unkindly,
Lest one word should pierce too deep;
Hearts made up of finest feeling
Never cause a heart to weep.
Never let the voice of anger

Any drooping mind oppress;
Rather bind a broken spirit-

Rather make life's trouble less. Sweet are words when fitly spokenOft they give the spirit cheer; Sweet is whispered consolation

To the child of sorrow's ear.
Melody-the deepest, purest-

Is with every tone inwove,
Like harps tuned by seraph fingers
In the realms of light and love.
Oh! without one word of kindness,
Poor, indeed, our hearts would be;
For kind words, like angel whispers,
Fill the soul with holy glee.
Joy would ever spring around us
If our love was unconfined;
Earth would soon have less of sorrow
If our words were only kind.

JOHN ROOKER.

BRIEF BUT TO THE PURPOSE.-Missionaries are bringing to light many interesting facts in regard to the mental characteristics of the people of Africa. Mr. Moffat, who has seen much of the southern part of this continent, gives us the following narrative, related to him by a man of Central Africa. It is perhaps without a parallel for its simplicity: My years were eighteen. There was war. At this time my mother died. My father died. I buried them. I had done. The Foulahs caught me. They sold me. The Housa people bought

us. They brought us to Tomba. We got up. To a white man they sold us. We had no shirts. We had no trousers. We were naked. In the midst of the water, into the midst of a ship they put us. Thirst killed somebody. Hunger killed somebody. By night we prayed. At sun time we prayed. God heard us. The English are good. God sent them. They came. They took us. Our hunger died. Our thirst died. Our chains went off from our feet. Shirts they gave us. Hats they gave us. Trousers they gave us. Every one was glad. We all praised the English. Whoever displeases the English into hell let them go."

QUEEN MARY'S GRATITUDE.-The Earl of Sussex had great fear of uncovering his head; and, considering that the colds he dreaded respected no person, he petitioned the Queen for leave to wear his nightcap in her royal presence. The Queen, in her abundant grace, not only gave him leave to wear it, but to wear two nightcaps if he pleased. The patent for this privilege runs thus :-" Know ye, that we do give to our well-beloved and trusty cousin and councillor, Henry, Earl of Sussex, Viscount Fitzwater, and Lord of Egremond and Burnell, license and pardon to wear his cap, coif, or nightcap, or any two of them, at his pleasure, as well as in the presence of any other person or persons within this our realm, or any other place in our dominions whatsoever, during his life, and these our letters shall be sufficient warrant in his behalf." The Queen's seal, with the garter about it, is affixed to this singular grant.-Miss Strickland's Lives of the Queens.

MARGATE.

Some few centuries back, Margate was a small fishing village, with a few rude huts thrown up along the beach, and having a mere or stream flowing at that point into the sea, whence it derived its present appellation, mere-gate. When London folks grew wiser and found that short trips had a wonderful power in preventing long doctors' bills, the place grew rapidly into repute, and the old Margate hoy, immortalised by Peter Pindar, discharged its hundreds of buff-slippered passengers annually. Since then, steam has done wonders, and Margate visitors have to be numbered by hundreds of thousands in the same space of time. Being situated partly on the acclivities of two hills, and partly in the valley below, the streets of Margate partake of that tortuous and undulating character which is so much pleasanter to look at than to climb.

The 6th day of April, 1810, witnessed the commencement of the present noble pier, constructed from a design by Rennie. Five years afterwards it was finished, at a cost of £100,000. It is 900 feet in length, 60 feet wide, and 26 feet high. A day ticket for one penny will not only give admission to the promenade, but afford an opportu nity besides of hearing a band perform for a few hours in the evening. There is a lighthouse at the extremity, which is an elegant ornamental Doric column. It was built in 1829. Those who like to get farther out can elongate their stroll by choosing Jarvis's jetty, which extends 1,120 feet from the shore, and forms a pleasantly cool promenade when the tide is out, althought a scurrilous wag has compared it to walking along an excessively attenuated cold gridiron. It was constructed in 1824 out of the finest English oak that could be procured, and at an expenditure of no less than £8,000. The old jetty has been replaced by a new and more substantial landing place in stone. Extending about a mile along the shore there is a stout barricade of stone, erected as a defence to the incursions of the sea, at an outlay of £30,000.

Among the delights and wonders of Margate are the Clifton Baths, cut out of the chalk cliffs, and curious as well as commodious, having some interesting appendages in the form of a library, news'-room, winding passages, marine terraces, and an organ which is at the service of the visitors. In the part called the Dane," there is also a curious grotto excavated from the chalk, and tastefully covered with shells. It appears that though the cavern itself dates back to an unknown age, the shell work was the handicraft of an ingenious artisan of Margate, who some years ago went to America. Though so much exposed to the wind, Margate is in winter some degrees warmer than any place in the neighbourhood of London, and in July and August it is generally four degrees cooler than Ramsgate. As far as the question of salubrity is concerned, the last returns of the Registrar General give us an exceedingly encouraging prospect. Whilst the average mortality of England is as 1 in 45, the mortality of the Isle of Thanet is as 1 in 60, showing a superior longevity proportionably of about 25 per cent. upon that of the general community, and of 50 per cent. upon many communities which far exceed the average of mortality. The Margate lounger has an infinite supply of amusements besides the fine pier, noble jetty, and spacious sands, which are almost inexhaustible of themselves. The sea view is bold and expansive, and the offing is constantly enlivened by the passing of steamers and other vessels on their voyage to or from various parts of the world. There is the pleasant bustle of the bathing machines in the morning, then the market, then the reading-rooms, and in the evening the bazaars, where, amidst the clang of different and sometimes differing instruments, the dice are constantly rattling, and there is sure to be always one wanting to make up the next chance."

Innumerable drives, shaded by tree and grove, lead to numberless villages of more or less importance, and some of them of considerable historical interest. At St. Nicholas is a fine old village church, once a chapel to the more magnificent structure at Reculver. Birchington shows another curious old church, and St. Peter's boasts of another, all worthy a visit. Dandelion, once the residence of Charles James Fox, has long been a show place, and some races that are held in September on the adjacent downs generally attract a large concourse of spectators. The Tivoli, the Wilderness, and a variety of delightful pleasure grounds rejoicing in the strangest freaks of nomenclature, are scattered round the path of the wayfarer; and the sound of merry minstrelsy is often heard of a summer eve disturbing the echoes round about.

Then, still lingering about the coast, we might make a brief pilgrimage to the North Foreland lighthouse, 63 feet in height, which

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a small gratuity to the keeper. A mile beyond is Kingsgate, where Charles II. landed, and furnished the pretext for its regal title. On the top of the the hill there is a snug inn, with a pleasant view, where we may stop and recreate ourselves, but there is little more than a stray cottage or two, and the Preventive-service station, to attract observation. Prolonging this stroll for another mile and a-half from Kingsgate, we arrive at Broadstairs, an "exceedingly select wateringplace," very genteel and very dull, with an aspect so imposingly quiet, that a stranger involuntarily walks about on tiptoe for fear of violating the solemn sanctity of the place. The old arch of York gate, built by the Culmer family, in the reign of Henry VIII., is the sole vestige of the once extensive fortifications that bristled up at the back of the old quay. There was a pier, too, swept away by the terrific storm in 1808, which destroyed the old one of Margate; but the rough wooden substitute is not the less picturesque, and there is a fine wholesome odour of sea-weed about the rafters enough to make one willing to forego the fashionable for the fragrant. At Broadstairs they have an insuperable objection to everything that smacks of the scanty purse, and an amusing anecdote is told of a certain landlord there, who may be taken as a fair type of his class :-A lady hearing that the venerable author of the "Pleasures of Memory" was stopping at the principal hotel, went over to the house, and asked if Mr. Rogers, the poet, was there? "The poet, mem!" ejaculated the landlord with indescrib able horror, at the very possibility of having such a vulgar personage as a poet in his house, "Oh! dear, no, mem, you must have been misinformed-really you must-our Mr. Rogers is a gentleman, I assure you."

UNRECORDED DISCOVERIES.-Who has not sympathized with Mungo Park's agony in drowning, his keenest pang being the thought that he would never be heard of more, and that the river would remain unknown as if he had never tracked it?-and with Clapperton's burning to death with fever, but burning yet more to tell at home of the great lake and fertile region in the heart of Africa?-and with Douglass, the hale and fearless, the bringer of so many forest and garden treasures, the fine fellow who hoped to do so much for us yet, and who was gored and torn like a red rag in a bull-trap in the Sandwich Islands; or worse, murdered and thrown in by an escaped convict?—and, with Franklin and his comrades, turning southwards, with, probably, the great polar secret in their possession, overtaken by want and death in the snow?-and with Wyburs, and Stoddart, and Conolly, one murdered en route, and the other two beheaded in a sordid nook of a mud city in Central Asia, after many months of weary hope of relief and return, at the last moment kissing each other before their enemies, and each knowing that the other's heart was swelling at the thought of the dumb departure, and of so much that could be told being shoved under ground, never to come forth again.

EGYPTIAN SHOPKEEPERS.-Shopkeepers were a sub-division of the third class, quite distinct from that of the artificers, who never vended their own goods. The Egyptian shops appear to have been rather mean and small, resembling our stalls, or open in front, as in the bazaars of eastern towns at the present day; and many persons, no doubt, sat and sold in the streets. Each branch of trade had, probably, its appropriate quarter in the city. Everything was sold by weight, and the money, in rings of gold and silver, was paid and received also by weight. In case of dispute a public notary was called in, whose decision was binding upon the contracting parties. A severe punishment was inflicted upon their officers for using false weights, or delivering false accounts; and a forged signature, or a wilful alteration in a deed or covenant, without the consent of the contracting parties, was visited upon a notary with the loss of his hands. The law of debtor and creditor was not so severe as among the Romans, where a debtor's person could be seized in satisfaction of a just demand; but in Egypt both debt and usury were discountenanced. Interest could never accrue to more than the doubling of the original sum borrowed, and there was a singular custom, which at once protected a creditor and made every man careful about contracting debts. The body of his father, or of a near relative, might be seized by way of security, the non-redemption whereof was infamy to the debtor, who could neither himself upon his decease, nor any of his children be buried in the tomb of his ancestors until the debt had been discharged.