the land of dreams—and strange indeed were the dreams that haunted him.

He seemed to be sitting with Amy on the banks of a beautiful stream, and talking with her of love and happiness, while her beautiful dark eyes were raised to his with an expression of devoted affection. But soon the scene changed. Dark clouds overspread the heavens, and several other forms appeared upon the scene. His father seemed to stand before him gazing upon the pair with an angry eye. He was holding in his hand the gory head of Charles, and opposite to him stood the form of Mr. Hunt, his face pale and haggard, gazing with horror upon the dead features. Then suddenly his father began to make a football of the head, and to throw it at Hunt, but his strength failing it rolled at the feet of Amy, who uttered a dreadful shriek, and sunk senseless in his arms. Sir Robert commanded him to leave her thus, and return home, or he would curse him again; and then it seemed as if the form of Hunt became gifted with new vigor, and he advanced with a menacing gesture toward Sir Robert, who was preparing to attack him, when a commanding figure on a white horse appeared, and ordered the two to desist. Douglas had never seen General Washington save in the various pictures of him every where scattered about the country; but he seemed to feel by intuition that it was he, and was about to speak and implore his intercession, when a cold hand was laid upon his face, obscuring his vision, and in his efforts to remove it he awoke.

"You do not appear to sleep easily," said a voice which he instantly recognized as that of Mr. Hunt. "I was disturbed by your repeated cries for help; and when I came in, your whole frame appeared agitated by some convulsion. I was afraid something serious had disturbed you."

"Nothing, nothing, sir," replied Allan. "It was perhaps occasioned by inspection of that strange picture. It haunted me in my sleep, and the figures seemed in motion, and

to assume familiar shapes. But I am sorry I have disturbed you with my fantasies, my dear sir, especially in your state of health. Pray return to your rest, and I will endeavor to be more quiet."

"I have rested well since I left you,” replied Mr. Hunt, "and as you now seem thoroughly awake, have you patience to listen to me a few moments?"

"I am wide awake, and anxious to hear all you have to say," said Allan, starting up in bed and leaning on one elbow, while the light of the candle which his host had brought into the room shone full upon his face.

"That picture, young man-what impres sion did it make upon your mind?"

"I can hardly tell," replied Douglas, shuddering. "I believe it was profound pity for the fate of the unfortunate victim, and detestation of his murderers."

"His murderers! Do you then consider all whose names are written there as murderers ?"

"In what other light can I consider them, sir? One stroke of their pens consigned a fellow-being (setting aside the fact that he was their king) to an ignominious death.

"He was a cold-hearted, licentious, profligate monarch, a scourge to the land he ruled!" exclaimed Hunt.

"He was a man," replied Douglas, “and, as a king, in a measure dependent upon the mercy of the thousands over whom he held such an uncertain sway. Was it not enough that he was driven from place to place like a wild beast, seeking shelter for his defenseless head? Why could they not let him die in peace in some obscure retreat, without thirsting for his very life-blood? Oh, bitter must have been the repentance of all those who were accessory to his death !”

"Bitter indeed!" exclaimed Hunt, covering his face with his hands. "I have kept that picture to gaze upon when I felt evil passions rising in my breast, and they were banished in a moment. Yet I would fain believe that the disciples of Cromwell were

led astray by fanaticism, by vague ideas that God required the blood of the wicked to establish his kingdom upon earth."

"Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.'"

"It was not vengeance that actuated them," said Hunt, in an excited tone. "No, no; it was a blind zeal for the good of the people at large; a desire to extend the true gospel among the bigoted Catholics, and to place over them a ruler whose strong faith and high principles might present an example to be imitated. They took the Scripture for their rule of action, and if they erred, it was from good motives. But the son of Sir Robert Douglas will never understand this."

"Who are you, sir?" exclaimed Douglas, unable longer to restrain his curiosity. "Rely upon my honor, and relate to me some part of your history."

"Remember your promise, young man : while under this roof I can tell you nothing further; but I must make one request be

fore you leave us—that is, that this roof and its inmates be forgotten from this time." "Forgotten! Never, never! Forget Amy! I cannot."

"You love my Amy !" exclaimed the old man, grasping his arm.

"I do, more than my life; oh, do not separate us!"

"It is your fate," replied IIunt. "You must leave here early in the morning, without seeing her again. Nothing on earth can ever bring about an union between you. Let me not have cause to curse the hour that you restored her to my arms. She shall ever bless you as her preserver, but if you regard the last request of one fast parting from earth, promise not to endeavor to see her until such time as I shall appoint."

"I promise," said Allan, touched by the agony of his look.

"You will leave without seeing her?"
"It is a hard exaction, but I will."
[CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.]

Ir may be said that from stubbornness we learn much experience; and if we could only add that we profited by the same, the obnoxious portion of the trait would soon be forgotten. A desire to appear conceited in the presence of well-informed associates is certainly far from right; it is not, at all events, prudent or agreeable.

A stubborn man will suffer much in secret, and the very cause of his affliction he can never seem to understand. If, in charity, he is told that wrong determinations have often reduced his pleasures, he will be more apt to ridicule than investigate the as

sertion.

In matters of opinion, stubbornness has frequently established hatred and distress among families and friends; in some instances, the most trifling events have led to harsh and painful feelings.

Once properly informed of our personal duties, and imbued with self-respect and solemn reflection, we can never consent to encourage that which excites distrust or anger. We should, in truth, be happy to avoid the winding ways of error, through the guidance of a companion who may have obtained the means to shield us by simply watching the indiscretions of others.

The trials and disappointments we meet with in life, no matter what may be our prospects or our possessions, are indeed powerful proofs that although we may be stubborn in our plans, hopes, or decisions, yet we are not free from correction, nor allowed to be wilfully opposed to truth, without some severe or unmistakable retribution.

The characteristre, when displayed in common conversation, almost warrants the formation, with those who may observe it, of

Unless we are able to counteract it with generosity in other things, an affectionate heart, or positive evidences that we are not malicious in any respect, we are truly unfor

tunate.

To be stubborn, then, in spite of punishments or disgrace, detracts much from the attention, friendliness, or sympathy of our

men become useful, and to look into the most prominent acts of their lives, to be convinced of the absurd or the expensive. results of our weakness. A thirst for knowledge has likewise been so often reckoned as one of the surest signs of an ingenious mind, that we are inclined to wonder that so many neglect to acquire it, with other great essentials.

MILLARD FILLMORE, President of the United States, was born January 7th, 1800, at Summer Hill, Cayuga county, in the State of New-York. His father, Nathaniel Fillmore, who was descended from an English family, followed the occupation of a farmer, and, in 1819, removed to Erie county, where he still lives, cultivating a small farm with his own hands. Owing to the humble circumstances of his father, Millard Fillmore's education was necessarily of the most imperfect kind; and at an early age he was sent to Livingston county, at that time a wild region, to learn the clothier's trade; and about four months later he was apprenticed to a wool-carder, in the town in which his father lived. During the four years that he worked at his trade, he availed himself of every opportunity of improving his mind, and supplying the defects of his early education. At the age of nineteen he made the acquaintance of the late Judge Wood, of Cayuga county, a man of wealth and eminence in his profession, who detected in the humble apprentice talents which would qualify him for a higher station. He accordingly offered to receive him into his office, and to defray his expenses during the time of his studies. Mr. Fillmore

accepted the proposal, but that he might not incur too large a debt to his benefactor, he devoted a portion of his time to teaching school. In 1821, he removed to Erie county, and pursued his legal studies in the city of Buffalo. Two years later he was admitted to the Common Pleas, and commenced the practice of the law at Aurora, in the same county. In 1827, he was admitted as an attorney, and in 1829, as a counsellor in the Supreme Court, and in the following year he removed to Buffalo, where he entered into partnership with an elder member of the bar. Mr. Fillmore's political life commenced with his election to the State Assembly, in which body he took his seat in 1829, as a member from the county of Erie. Being a member of the Whig party, he was at that time in opposition, and had little opportunity to distinguish himself; but he took a prominent part in assisting to abolish imprisonment for debt in the State. In 1832 he was elected to Congress, and took his seat the following year. In 1835, at the close of his term of office, he resumed the practice of the law, until he once more consented to be a candidate for Congress, and took his seat again in 1837. During this session he took a more prominent part in

the business of the House than during his former term, and he was assigned a place on one of the most important committees-that on elections. He was successively reëlected to the 26th and 27th Congresses, and in both of them distinguished himself as a man of talents and great business capacity. At the close of the first session of the 27th Congress, he signified to his constituents his intention not to be a candidate for reëlection, returned to Buffalo, and again devoted himself to his profession, of which he had become one of the most distinguished members in the State. In 1844, he was prevailed upon to accept the nomination by the Whig party for Governor of the State of NewYork; but he shared in the general defeat of his party. In 1847, however, he was consoled for his defeat by his election to the office of Comptroller of the State, by an exceedingly large majority. In 1848, he was nominated by the Whigs as their candidate for Vice-President, and elected to that office in the fall of the same year. In March,

1849, he resigned his office of Comptroller, to assume the duties of his new position, and in the discharge of those high and delicate duties, he acquitted himself with courtesy, dignity, and ability, until the death of General Taylor, in July, 1850, elevated him to the Presidential chair. His term of office expires on the 4th of March, 1853. Mr. Fillmore was married in 1826 to Abigail Powers, the youngest child of the late Rev. Lemuel Powers, by whom he has a son and a daughter. Mr. Fillmore has filled the distinguished station which he now occupies. with dignity and ability. He is emphatically a self-made man. comparative poverty, he has, by his own exertions, raised himself to one of the most eminent positions in the world, affording a fine illustration of the boast of our country, that its highest honors and dignities are the legitimate objects of ambition to the humblest in the land, as well as to those most favored by the gifts of birth and fortune.

From an inheritance of

MEETA CLIFTON was sitting alone in her luxuriously furnished boudoir, one hand veiling her eyes from the subdued light of the apartment, the other carelessly resting on the closed and splendidly bound volume in her lap. Her small lips were tightly compressed, and now and then there stole from the veiled eyes large tears, which glanced along her cheeks like drops of dew on the petals of a blushing rose.

From the opened windows of the conservatory there came a mingled perfume of many blossoms, and at her feet lay the halffinished wreath of delicate buds, which but a few moments before she had been busily

twining. A door opened, and Mecta's reverie was broken. She raised her large, thoughtful eyes, and met the anxious and inquiring gaze of her devotedly fond mother.

"Tears! tears again, my darling-tell me, Meeta, why is this? Have you not every luxury which you could desire?—every wish granted as soon as expressed?—and still you persevere in weeping away your mornings, and sighing away your evenings, as though your heart was breaking. There is some cause for this, Meeta, and you must tell it to me, my child."

Mrs. Clifton had commenced in an almost playful tone of voice, but as she proceeded

her tones, if not her words, assumed a tinge of bitterness, and when she ceased a look of vexation had entirely displaced the one of motherly anxiety, which had before so plainly predominated. Meeta stopped, raised the wreath, and selecting a sprig of jessamine from the flowers before her, diligently bent over her work, as she carelessly answered: "It is not strange that one should have sad thoughts at times, mamma, and I have been reading a sad tale this morning."

Mrs. Clifton lifted the volume. It was a book of German legends.

"I wish you would stop reading these German stories, Meeta-you know you were always visionary enough. Come, child, put up this nonsensical romance and dress your self; I will order the carriage, and we will go down to Levy's and see what they have new and pretty."

A look of weariness, almost of disgust, passed over Meeta's strikingly beautiful features as she arose from the lounge, and carefully laid her wreath in a porphyry urn half filled with water. With a languid step she followed her mother from the room-up the staircase, and then gliding into her own dressing-room, she closed the door, and turned the key in the lock. She threw a careless glance around the chamber, and met the reflection of her own graceful form in the Psyche glass. The marble forehead so thoughtfully serene-the dark eyes so intensely brilliant-the faultlessly chiselled mouth-she noted all, and then with an almost sorrowful smile, she said: "For these must I listen to the flatteries I despise, while not one soul in the wide world understands me as I long to be understood."

"Meeta, are you ready?"

"In one moment, mamma ;" and tying on her bonnet, and folding her cashmere about her, she joined her mother in the hall.

After making their purchases at Levy's, Mrs. Clifton ordered the coachman to drive to the United States Hotel, where Meeta and herself immediately proceeded to call upon some friends from St. Louis.

They found Mrs. Nugent and her daughter

in the parlor-Miss Nugent singing a popular song, accompanied by a gentleman beside her, whose deep, rich voice swept the fine chords of Meeta's heart, as a summer breeze would sweep over the trembling strings of a wind-harp. But the melody it awoke died not as soon away. How many times in the watches of the sleepless night that succeeded that eventful meeting, did Meeta Clifton listen to the echoing vibrations which so powerfully moved her; how many times did she repeat to herself his musical name"Clarence Grenville." It seemed to her the golden key which was to unlock for her the treasure-house of the future.

The next day Mrs. Nugent and her daughter passed with the Cliftons. Mr. Grenville dined with them; and when he bade them good evening, he bore away the jessamine which Meeta had twined in her wreath-the wreath she had wept over, little dreaming one of its flowers would be pressed to the lips of her "first love."

Days, weeks, months glided onward, and Meeta and Clarence were betrothed. In Grenville had Meeta found the ideal she had pictured; and fully understood and appreciated by him was her noble and sensitive nature. Never wearied of her wild imaginings, he listened hour after hour to the tide of brilliant thought which gushed carelessly from the deep wells of her intellect, or flowed calmly from the boundless seas of her affection. He had passed the first flush of manhood, and disgusted with the heartlessness of the throng, in whose midst he had moved a polished man of the world, he looked upon Meeta's rare and beautiful attractions with surprise and glowing admiration; for even at their first meeting had his discerning eye penetrated the almost haughty coldness of her manners. An intimate acquaintance soon ripened into love upon his part, and the avowal of it was met with no affectation of indifference by Meeta. Upon the very sofa where but a few months before she had wept because she so longed for a sympathizing spirit, did she sit by the side of Clarence, hand clasped in hand, and the pure blood mantling her