THE CLERGYMAN'S DAUGHter.

THAT unmixed happiness is not to be found on earth, all readily admit. But many are so callous-hearted, that occurrences, which make the sensitive miserable, are, to them, trifles, light as air, and are as little heeded. The wonder, however, is not, that some are and some are not happy; but, that those, whose days are passed in acts of piety and benevolence, should be made to drink deeply of the cup of sorrow, should be doomed to have their reasonable hopes and just expectations blasted, and should eventually sink under their afflictions into an early grave; while those, who never, from their birth, once honored heaven or hallowed earth, who neither fear God, nor do one redeeming act of charity or mercy, should be surrounded by all the blandishments of life, the riches, honor and glory of the world,-these are things, which seem to furnish proof conclusive, that there is a hereafter, and that equal and exact justice will ultimately be awarded to all our race.

These reflections were in part suggested by the melancholy story of a beautiful girl, who, at an early age, died broken-hearted, the victim of disappointed love. This story we propose briefly and concisely to narrate. Its melancholy catastrophe, although some thirty or forty years have elapsed since it occurred, is still fresh in the memory of a few of the inhabitants of the village, which was the birth and burial place of as fair a flower as was ever nipped in the bud.

As but few individuals are connected with the incidents of the story, it is not necessary to particularize the inhabitants of the village. That it was on an equality, in the number and variety of its people, with any of our smaller inland New-England towns, a bare enumeration will be sufficient to prove; for it had a pious and zealous clergyman, a skillful and friendly physician, one or two sons of Vulcan and St. Crispin, dapper storekeepers and buxom lasses, esquires, and gentlemen high in rank in the militia. Of this last class, it was blessed with an abundance, having the whole gradation, from a general of division to a private.

To the clergyman, it is fit and proper that the reader should have a more formal introduction. In height, he was about six feet. His complexion was sallow, approaching to the copper-colored hue of the Aborigines of America, and like them, too, his eye was black and lustrous. His manners were repulsive, and in his religious opinions, he was rigidly orthodox. His heart, however, was keenly alive to all the nobler and gentler impulses of our nature; and he was honored and respected in his sacred office. He had been several years a widower; and a lovely daughter, just entering upon her seventeenth year, was, at the period to which we refer, the being in whom he had garnered up his heart." Her angel form and feature were but the index of her soul. Her father had watched, with all a parent's fondness, the budding beauties of her mind and person. He had observed the quiet, dove-like kindness, with which she ministered to his comforts, and the patience and constancy, with which she attended the sick-bed of the afflicted and wo-worn members of his flock, as well as the gentleness, with which she dispensed relief to those in want. The

esteem and love he felt for her frequently excited the liveliest emotions in his bosom; and there were moments when he looked upon her as little less than an emanation from the Divinity; and whilst under the influence of these feelings, without being himself aware of the idolatry, his spirit bowed in adoration and worshiped her as an angel of light. Several of the young men, natives of the town, had, at an early period, strayed away to seek their fortunes in the great world. Among these, there was one, some ten years older than the clergyman's daughter, who had in his boyhood entered the merchant service, and, from the humblest capacity, had risen to the rank of Captain; and he was esteemed, by a late eminent merchant, as one of the most accomplished and skillful of those to whom he entrusted his "rich argosies."

The success and good fortune of his friend, were sources of gratification to the clergyman; and on his return from each succeeding voyage, the captain met with a warm and cordial reception at the parsonage. At an age when he was incapable of rightly understanding his loss, death deprived him of his father. His mother still survived, and received from him all the attention which is due from child to parent. Her conduct, however, had been imprudent, and her character was bad. This he keenly felt and deeply regretted; but as it did not appear to affect him personally, he did not suffer it to deprive him of his equanimity of mind and temper. He still continued to receive, from the clergyman and his daughter, the cheering smile, the cordial welcome, which were so dear to him. The stain cast upon the mother's character did not soil the reputation of her son, nor cloud the happiness he felt at each returning visit to his native village, and the pastor's friendly mansion. Years passed away in alternate departures and returns; and the attachment which time and occasional absence had only tended to strengthen, gradually ripened in the bosoms of the captain and his lady-love, and at length gained such an ascendency, that their affection for each other seemed a part of their existence.

The clergyman, although in most things shrewd and observing, had not foreseen the consequences of the captain's visits at his house. The mutual partiality of his daughter and the captain had long been observed by the villagers; their union had been predicted by many a fire-side assembly, and rumor had even fixed the day for their nuptials; yet the clergyman was wholly unconscious of the nature of their attachment. When his assent was requested to their union, the unwelcome and unexpected request occasioned both consternation and surprise. As soon as his feelings permitted, he refused, in the most positive terms, to give his consent. Not because he had any objections to the captain; for his character was without blemish, his person was handsome, and his circumstances were easy; but because,-the captain being so much his daughter's senior, and not knowing the state of her heart, he supposed that their union was to her a matter of indifference, and the good clergyman was not willing that his daughter, by marrying the son, should place herself in a situation to be brought in contact with his abandoned and degraded mother.

Accustomed as she was to yield implicit obedience to the commands of her father, the daughter heard without a murmur his cruel decision. Not a word of remonstrance escaped her lips. She enjoyed, for a brief season thereafter, the society of her lover. She gazed with emotions

of pleasure on his manly and well proportioned form, and listened to the sound of his voice, which was rich music to her ears. But soon the calls of business compelled him to leave once more his native vale, and to bid adieu to the clergyman and his daughter. For a while she found a solace in the performance of her duties; but ever and anon her imagination turned towards her absent lover. Her fancy frequently presented to her mind the picture of his gallant bark, surrounded by sea and sky, pursuing its course over the world of waters, to procure the spices and perfumes, the gold and gems, and all the varied articles of luxury or of comfort, which commercial enterprize brings to our shores. But soon, the hopelessness of her attachment made her feel more deeply the harshness of her parent's refusal, and her health began rapidly to decline. The physician's friendly aid was invoked, but, as he could not "minister to a mind diseased," his skill was of no avail ; and she became gradually more unwell, until apprehensions were entertained, that her disease would terminate fatally. A change of air was recommended, and, soon after, the clergyman and his daughter left the village to visit the springs at Saratoga. No benefit was derived from the waters, and, after the lapse of a few weeks, they commenced their homeward journey. But, before they reached home, she became so enfeebled, that she had not strength enough to walk from the carriage to the house. At this period, she breathed in her father's ear the story of the depth and unalterable nature of her affection for the captain. Then it was that the conviction flashed upon his mind, that she was falling a sacrifice to the injustice of which he had been guilty, in visiting the sins of the parent upon the son, and refusing to sanction the union of his daughter to a man every way worthy of her, because of the miscon duct of his mother. As he enfolded his daughter in his arms, to remove her from the carriage to the bed, his whole frame shook with the intensity of his emotion. He sought to relieve the agony of his feelings, by assuring her of his consent to their union. He kneeled at her bedside, and besought Heaven to spare him his only solace, his loved and lovely daughter. But his consent had been too long delayed and was now of no avail. "The iron had entered her soul." In one short week from this time, her spirit returned to God who gave it. The intelligence of her death spread with lightning rapidity through the village, and mourning pervaded every family. When the day for her funeral came, a larger assemblage was congregated, than had ever before been witnessed. It was a beautiful sunny day, early in June. The face of nature seemed decked in Eden freshness. The varied tints and foliage of the trees and flowers were destined to bloom till autumn. They were not to be cut off, as was the heroine of our sad story, in the spring-time of their existence; for "leaves have their time to fall, but thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death." No eulogium was pronounced over the departed, for no words, that human lips could have uttered, would have appeared proper on this occasion; and in mute and unbroken silence the immense funeral assembly followed her remains to their last earthly resting place.

The wrongs inflicted by parents upon their children are generally without the slight palliative which may be urged to excuse the conduct of the clergyman. But the objection to the character of the mother partakes of that Pharisaical spirit, which prompted the exclamation,

"Stand off-I am holier than thou." To those, who make merchandize of their daughters, and sacrifice their happiness on the altar of avarice or ambition, the great moral lesson, which our story inculcates, is commended. The sacrifice in this instance was great indeed. The noble-hearted girl had so much reverence for the obligation, which duty enjoined, of obeying the commands of her parent, that she gave up her lover without a murmur; and only revealed her regret that she had bestowed her heart where she must withhold her hand, when her mental torture had consumed her heart, and she felt that she must die ere she could again behold the being, for whom, except her father, she would alone wish to live.

But if the fault which the clergyman committed was great, the retribution was terrible. He was told in language as plain as looks can tell, by every invalid, by every child, and by nearly every individual in the village, that they had lost their dearest and best friend, and that they considered him the cause of their loss. At the parsonage, by every thing around he was reminded of his daughter; and particularly and forcibly by the recollection of those endearing attentions, which he had been accustomed to receive at her hands, but which were now wanting. In his walks, she was ever present to his mind; and at church, too, though her seat was unoccupied, her form haunted his imagination. His mind and body became so much exhausted, that he came to a resolution to leave the village. At his request, his connection with the church was dissolved, and he removed to a distant part of the state, where, though he still suffered, his sufferings were less

intense.

Some months after, the captain returned. The intelligence that his loved one had "bowed her head and died" did not surprise him; for he knew the sensibility of her nature, and had feared such a result. He spent many days at her tomb, meditating upon her virtues; and just previous to his departure, he caused a plain marble slab, white as her own purity, and bearing a suitable inscription, to be erected, to mark the place of her abode in the "city of silence."

MAINE.

THE state of Maine, which lies in about the latitude of the middle and south of France, contains nearly as many square miles of territory as the remaining part of New-England; and, though situated down east, (towards which place every step is supposed by some to descend,) it yet contains the highest land in New-England, if not in the United States. The climate, like that of the other countries on the coast of North-America, is colder than in the corresponding latitudes in Europe, which is owing, in some degree, to the prevalent north-easterly winds, but still more to extensive swamps and wet grounds, which will be much improved by cultivation.

The winters usually last five months, and though our southern brethren imagine that the country is then a gloomy desert, and that

the inhabitants pass the time like dormice or marmots, it is the very time of business and jollity. The farmer, lumberman, merchant, and in fact all classes of people, are never ready for the snow to be gone, in the spring; they wish it would "hold on about a fortnight longer." A winter of South-Carolina, or, indeed of Maryland, would be a calamity to the country; the farmer would be unable to carry his produce to market; the trader would find few customers; the lumberman would be interrupted in his business, and the lover would lose his sleigh-ride.

The weather in winter is not a great deal colder than in Massachusetts, Rhode-Island or Connecticut, but is much more steady; and (as a person of one of these states once observed to me) "it is cold and wintry in Maine in the proper season; but here, at that time, we have all weathers."

The large rivers, in general, run southerly; that part of the St. John's, however, which is in this state, flows to the east. Natives of Maine, who are accustomed to hear only the largest streams called rivers, are tempted to laugh at the taste of the good people of Massachusetts, where every petty brook has this name. I recollect that, when once traveling in the county of Bristol, in company with several gentlemen acquainted in that part of the country, on coming in sight of a stream larger than usual, I inquired of one of the party the name of the brook, and was answered with a solemn countenance, that it was "Taunton great river."

The waters of the streams of Maine, generally, have a very swift motion, with numerous falls and high banks. Considering these two circumstances in connexion with the great number of streams in the state, and the facility with which materials may be transported by means of the navigable waters, it is easily perceived that Maine has manufacturing advantages, which, perhaps, no other state possesses.

The rivers are separated by ranges of highlands, two or three thousand feet in height; at the heads of the Penobscot, Kennebec and Androscoggin, there is an immense cluster of mountains. In the centre of these, Mount Katahdin rises upwards of six thousand feet, and is the highest mountain in the United States ;* other mountains near it have nearly the same elevation. The view from Katahdin is most sublime. Innumerable lakes and ponds are seen surrounding its base, which, in the sun beams, appear like so many mirrors. The whole of the valley of the Penobscot and Kennebec is discerned from this mountain, and the highlands separating them, and those bounding them on each side, appear like immense waves. Not a single human habitation is seen. It is no unpleasant sensation to have that melancholy feeling excited by sitting on some jutting crag of this rugged, gigantic pile, in the autumn, and viewing the shining lakes and the winding rivers, which show like so many veins of silver drawn through the forest in the vales below. The trees (which, in this part of Maine, are of a mixed growth of hard and soft wood,) present a uniform aspect. The neighboring mountains look lonely, and yet have a wild and terrible appearance; they are composed of ragged rocks near the summit, which stand out in bold relief, and are entirely destitute of vegetation at the

*Mount Washington has been regarded as the most elevated land in the United States, but that is a mistake.