Therese. Oh! if I were only permitted to wipe away those tears! Laurence. In confidence, these tears often flow, without wine, in the long, sleepless nights. Well, it is a just retribution! The father discovered our place of concealment, we were surprised, drawn forth and separated. I have never seen my Hedwig since! Dear Lord-I must weep again!-do not be displeased with me-I believe, indeed, that you are weeping, too. Therese. From my heart. as I saw a ship in the distance, hu! how my heart thumped. Many ships arrived, but my Hedwig came not! Finally, I was taken sick, and as I was entirely alone in the light house, the lamps were not lit for several nights. I was dismissed; this was just, for great misfortunes might have been the consequence of my neglect. Therese. Dismissed! because you were sick? Laurence. Good Lord! miss, a man, when he fills an office, and has duties to perform, must not become sick; his employers do not willingly pay him for being sick. I obtained a situation immediately after, however, at the telegraph office, but a strange accident happened me there. I was required to make the signals that six American vessels were in sight. Ah, heaven! the American flag had so turned my head, for I thought, immediately, of my Hedwig-that I reported the words: "I will follow you as soon as I can!" My superior thought I was out of my wits, and, indeed, he was quite right. They dismissed me, as I certainly deserved to be, and Laurence. God bless you for it! ah! the worst comes now. I was imprisoned to await a trial, like a felon. If they had hanged me they would have served me justly-but they allowed me to escape, I cannot tell why. Several men, in disguise, came to my prison at night; they must have bribed the jailer-I was placed on board a vessel just about to sail. One of the men put gold into my hand but warned me never to return to Surinam. I felt as if I must jump into the sea; but the man thrust a little scrap of paper into my hand, which saved } I have remained without an appointment to the me from self-destruction. On it were writ-present day. ten, by my Hedwig, these words : low you as soon as I can." Oh! I have that little piece of paper still! but, of late, I have looked at it but seldom; for my eyes are painful, now-you understand me-I must write a great deal by a stump of candle and I want my eyes. "I will fol Therese. You shall spare them in future. Laurence. No, that cannot be. A morsel of bread must be earned. It was a considerable amount of gold which the man gave me, I believe; enough to have served me during life, but somehow I lost it. Therese. Lost it! Laurence. Yes. People thought it must have been stolen from me, but I can scarcely believe that. It was in good ducats, in a neat little casket. Now, I had some beautiful works, by Wieland, and thought that they deserved much more than the gold, a place in the casket. Therefore, I took out the ducats and put Wieland in their place. I carried the gold in my pockets, which might have had holes in them-in short, the money disappeared. I do not know how much there was, for I never counted it. But I still had the little note: "I will follow you as soon as I can," which lay alongside of Wieland. Therese. And so you were compelled, in future to struggle with poverty. Laurence. Oh no; at first things went very well with me. I received a fine little appointment, which I had some trouble to obtain; it was to attend to the lamps of the light house. You may easily guess why I chose this employment; I could look out upon the sea. As often Therese. Poor man! Laurence. Poor, I certainly was; for I had not learned to do any thing but to write. There was great crowd of clerks, and so I was compelled to hunger. I did not starve, however, as you see, for God opened for me a spring in the desert. A tailor requested me to write him a poem for a marriage festival. He thought that he who could write must know how to make verses, also. I had never written verses in my life, but hunger inspired me. "I can at least try," thought I; and, would you believe it! I succeeded. Since then I have made a rich subsistence, for the tailor recommended me and many a poem brought me a whole florin. And you must not suppose that I have always been so badly clothed; oh, no! at present there is a special reason for my wretched appearance. Therese. But have you never had any tidings of your Hedwig? Laurence. Would to God I had not! I spent my days at the wharf, on the watch for newcomers from South America. The moment any one set his foot on land, trembling with hope and anxiety, I was questioning him. Once, a natural philosopher returned from Surinam. He had known Mr. Brutendorf and his daughter, (Laurence folds his hands in his lap, bends down his head upon his breast, and speaks in broken accents,) who-was dead-he said. Therese. Do you know nothing else of her? Therese. You are deeply moved-take time to recover yourself. Julius. I seek the poet, Kindling. Laurence. I am he. Take a seat. (Hands him his chair.) (Therese springs up and offers her own to Laurence.) Laurence. Do not stir; I can soon provide a seat for myself. (He draws out the empty hamper, turns it upside down, and sits on the bottom.) Now, sir, in what can I serve yon? Julius. I have come to order a weddingpoem. Laurence. I can supply you, at once, for I have a number, on hand, of various descrip tions. Julius. Your pardon, sir-but with regard to my marriage, there are a number of peculiar circumstances which I wish introduced into the poem. Laurence. Very well, very well; I will bring them all in according to order. Julius. Do so, and I will prove my thankfulness. Laurence. (aside to Therese.) Then, perhaps, I shall be able to acquit myself of my indebtedness to you. Julius. So did she write to him, and only waited for her confinement to carry out her intention. Laurence. Her confinement! Julius. But she gave birth to a daughter and died. Laurence. (rising up in violent agitation.) She died-she gave birth to a daughter?-and this daughter, sir, she lives? Julius. She lives, and is my betrothed. Julius. A beautiful, excellent maiden! the sole heiress of the rich Brutendorf-I am so happy as to be loved by her; but she has constantly refused to bless my hopes until she should have discovered her father, and received his blessing for that purpose we embarked together. Laurence. She is here? Therese. At your feet! (she casts herself down before him.) Laurence. Oh my God! this is too muchthou my daughter! (sobbing convulsively,) ha! ha ha ha ha!-thou my child! I have a child!-ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! (he sinks, fainting, in her arms.) Therese. Julius, your were too rash; my father is dying. Laurence. (Coming to himself.) What has Julius. My betrothed is the grand-daughter { happened to me?—is it true? have I not been of a rich planter of Surinam. Laurence. (letting both arms sink down, and staring upon Julius.) What? dreaming? Therese. I am your daughter; I have now only since the death of my grandfather, been permitted to search you out. Laurence. (childishly.) You are my daughter -my beautiful, my lovely daughter! Oh! I have not eyes enough to look upon you. How are you called? I do not even know your name. Therese. Therese. Laurence. Therese! my Therese! I have become a rich man-ah! how have I suddenly become rich? Julius. (beseechingly.) And my wedding poem? Laurence, (clasping his daughter closely and anxiously to his breast.) No! no! I will not permit you to leave me--I have been so many years alone-I have been dead-to-day I am newly born! shall I die again, to-day? Therese. We will never separate; we will make but one family. Laurence. Family! will poor Laurence Kindling have a family!-children, have patience with me-my body is weak; I may say to you, indeed, that I have often lacked food; I have grown weak. Therese. My good father! Laurence. Father! am I a father? Hear all of you ?-is nobody here?-throw open the window! I am a father! Julins. Our father! Laurence (embracing them both.) Your father! Therese. Hope! hope! thou wilt not deceive those who trust in thee! Laurence. Have I deserved this? (he looks humbly upward.) Oh! no! no! I have not deserved it. (The curtain falls:) For Arthur's Magazine. REVERSES OF FORTUNE. A SKETCH OF WESTERN LIFE. BY H. D. C. PART I. T was a mild autumnal evening in 1813. The sun had but just gone down, and his lingering beams, like dallying lovers, still kissed the blushing foliage of a forest, in what was then called the Far West." Jack Frost, that inimitable painter, had already decked each tree and shrub with a thousand hues, from the rich, deep, golden tint, to the modest Quaker drab. All nature, indeed, seemed to have put on the coat of many colors," as if determined to have at least one grand display, before old winter should throw over its face the white veil of unwilling seclusion. The venerable forest of a thousand years, seemed to forget its age, as its tree tops smiled in the departing light of the sun, while the nestling birds from its embowered recesses carolled forth their simple vespers. The blue smoke, too, curling from the rude chimney of a solitary log cabin, which stood in the centre of a small "clearing," in the midst of the wood, seemed to rise joyfully into the clear atmosphere, as if it were the evening sacrifice of the tenement's humble inmates. These were, a hardy New England Pioneer, his wife, two sons, and an infant daughter. The sons, William and James, were old enough to assist their father at clearing, breaking, and cropping." The members of this humble family were amongst the first settlers in that part of the West, and of course endured many hardships, while they were deprived of the luxuries of an Eastern residence; yet they were cheerful and contented; and had it not been for the difficulty of paying for the lands they had purchased, their happiness would have been complete. The difficulties which frowned upon them from the future and the spirit with which they met them, will appear from what follows. Upon the evening in question, they were partaking of their frugal supper, when a knock from without, interrupted their meal, and conversation. Lee, the head of the family, answering the summons at the door, was saluted by a well-dressed stranger, on horseback, who requested "accommodation" for himself and his tired animal until morning. He was immediately welcomed by the sturdy pioneer, and giving his horse in charge of one of the boys, soon found himself comfortably seated by the fireside of his host. A plain but substantial supper was quickly prepared, after partaking of which, the stranger, won by the unaffected cordiality of his entertainer, forgot all reserve, and in the course of the conversation which ensued, communicated to him his name and history. The guest, Henry Florence, was a native and a merchant of one of our Eastern cities. He was wealthy, and fond of adventure, and having vested a few hundreds in western lands, he resolved to gratify his desire of seeing the vast forests, the rolling prairies, and the noble lakes and rivers of the great West. Upon a visit of adventure as well as profit, therefore, he had accidentally become the guest of the settler. "You must endure many privations, in this wild, unsettled country," said Florence, in the course of the evening's conversation. Yes; but the East" aint the place for poor men; now me and mine are as good as any body, and I like to be, where I can live like other folks. The West's a growin' country, and I 've a notion I can grow with it, and when I die, leave some-clearing," and as he saw them, he swiftly thing handsome for my children." "How long have you been here?" "Three years last March." "How have you prospered during that time?" "Oh! first rate, so far; but the drought' has almost ruined the crops this year, and I'm hard pressed to raise the money to make my last payment on my land. The "shiners" are mighty scarce in these parts, and I 'm afeared sometimes, I'll have to give up the land, and all I've earned these last two years, and paid towards it. But never mind, we must have troubles or else we would n't know what we could do, if we tried." These last words were spoken with a tone of resolution, though his voice trembled slightly, as he bent down to kiss the little Ellen in his lap. The child looked up into his face, smiled sweetly in response to his caress, and then nestled closer upon his bosom. "Do you not get discouraged at times?" asked Florence. "Well I do once in a while, feel something like it; but then, it'll all come out right,-that's my motto. We have got to be a little earlier and later at the business. Boys!" he continued, turning towards his sons, "We've all got to work harder! I tell you, if we do 'nt, we'll get no fodder!" "I reckon we can do our share" resolutely replied the youngest; his words met a response in the determined look of his elder brother, and in the approving smile of his father. Henry Florence remained several days with the settler, whose unremitting exertions to make him comfortable were both effectual and appreciated. Upon leaving, he urged his worthy host to accept some compensation, for the trouble and expense of his protracted stay, but received, in answer to all his entreaties, the blunt reply, Money aint the price of Isaac Lee's hospitality!" A few days after the departure of the stranger, the wife and children of the settler stood at the door of their humble cabin, awaiting his return from the country town, whither he had gone, half-despairing, to arrange for the payment of the land which had cost him so many months of toil. The countenances of the group were sorrowful, save that of the little Ellen, who, like the rose, blushing beneath the April cloud, innocently smiled, unconscious of impending misfortune. Twilight gathered slowly, and, as if imbued with the spirit of the quiet hour, they were silent and sad, while they watched for the return of Lee. They did not wait long. He soon emerged from the woods upon the opposite side of the urged his horse towards them, shouting at the top of his voice, "Hurrah, wife! Jimmy! Bill! Pet! all of you, hurrah. The land's all paid for! Mr. Florence did it! He got the receipts made out before he left, two days ago, and gave them to 'Squire Benson at the Land-Office, to keep, till I came to town! He's gone back to the East, but never mind, I'll have a chance to pay him, some day!" "God bless him!" ejaculated the wife, while tears ran down her cheek. "God bless him!" shouted the boys as they threw their ragged hats into the air. PART II. SEVENTEEN years have elapsed, and time has brought changes. The forest has gradually fallen before the axes of the settlers; the little-cattle path, winding through the woods from house to house, has been superseded, by the well raised turnpike and county road; the little clearing" has expanded into the well-improved farm; and the flourishing village marks the spot, where, but a few years ago stood the humble "Public" of some settler, more ambitious than his neighbors. How cheerfully the smoke curls up from the midst of yon beautiful grove of forest trees, surrounding that fine, comfortable farm-house! Look, too, at that bursting barn, just back of it, with the glistening ice-icles, hanging from its projecting eaves;-for it is winter;-and at the sleek, well-fed cattle, standing upon the warm, south side, leisurely chewing their quid," undisturbed by the cackling of the poultry, and the uproar of the greedy swine, contending over their evening potations of sour milk and corn. But let us look around. How straight the fences are and how thrifty appears yon large orchard, although winter has hung ice-icles, where summer would have had leaves and fruit! How beautifully the star-light shines upon the frozen surface of that little stream, as it first emerges from the upland wood, and then stretches its bright course across the snow-covered meadow !— But come! 't is Christmas time, and we will find good cheer at the farm-house. I will introduce you to its inmates. Ah! a gathering! We have happened in at the right time! These twenty or thirty young people, are guests ;-this is a merry-making, and truly they seem determined upon making merry!-Now supper is ready, and they are leaving |