to pursue for some time the general wanderings of literature in his delightful garden. This offer was accepted-and, for several of the summer months, he took up his abode with his friend.

Russell was happy in his family, and for awhile successful in his business; but, after several years, finding his property in some measure reduced, by losses at sea, he closed his business, and retired into the country, some eight or ten miles from his former friends; but, as they seldom visited their neighbors, he did not see them-until the time we have mentioned of their being together after the wound had been given to the feelings of Gilbert by his nephewand then the meeting was accidental. Riding around the country with his whole family in a large carry-all, the driver took such roads as he thought would give them the best view of the country. Thompson's garden was to be seen from the street-and the children cried out to the driver to stop, and let them see Paradise. This compliment was heard by the owner of the premises—and he raised his head from the flowers he was examining, and saw Russell and his family, and noticed the impatience of the children to walk in the garden-and, stepping up to the wall, invited the children to come in; and, opening the gate himself, came up to the carriage and offered Mrs. Russell his hand, to conduct her to the garden. She did not know the gentleman. As he entered the enclosure, he with great embarrassment stammered out" Russell, will you not do me the honor of looking at these flowers with your children?" He descended from the carriage, and entered the garden. Thompson gazed on him a moment, and then rushed into Russell's embrace. They forgave each other; no explanations were The wife, from what she had heard from her husband when they were married, instantly understood the

necessary.

whole matter and hastened to find her strolling children. Gilbert had seen the interview from the summer-house, and flew out to meet them. He read all at a glance, and declared that it was the happiest moment of his life. As soon as the three friends were a little more composed, they went in search of Madam Russell.

Thompson and Gilbert were introduced to the wife of their friend-an elegant and accomplished woman. She received them as old friends, and in ten minutes the children were climbing up to get into the arms of their new friends. They were invited to stay and dine-which invitation was accepted-and a happy time they had of it. The two bachelors were delighted to find the second and third sons were named for them-the first being called after the maternal grandfather.

They lived for several years in almost daily intercourse. The bachelors carne to dine with Russell, and they became more attached to each other than they had ever been in their youthful days. Calling to mind who it was that had made their fortunes, they secured the inheritance of a good portion of their estates to Russell's children—who, in every respect, deserved their good fortune: On the marriage of Russell's eldest daughter, her grandfather (Mr. Long) and his wife, who had several years before returned to England, were present, having come to this country to see their children and grandchildren. The bachelors were present, and enjoyed the scene, perhaps, more than either the parents or grandparents. Sitting at the supper-table after the others had retired, Thompson gave the substance of this narrative to the writer of this tale-closing it with this emphatic remark-"That no man was ever happy, even in Paradise, or in the loftiest flights of the imagination, or in the depths of science, who neglected to follow the laws of nature and the commands of God."

THE INTEMPERATE.

"I have lived much in the world, and for it: but I have done nothing for myself. When I am gone, tell my story, in truth and candor, with no other Plant a disguise, than to save the feelings of a few of my kindred and friends. beacon-light on my grave, that others of the gay world may shun the rock on which I have split." From the directions of the Subject of this Tale to the Author.

How many of the human race, and particularly of our own countrymen, there have been, who were rocked in their infancy in the iron cradle, by the rude blasts of misfortune, and who have grown hardy by the early storms of life-and who, too, have won an enviable fame, stood exalted on the lists of the mighty in intellect, and among the But there is another prosperous in accumulating wealth! side to the picture. Some, whose swaddling-bands were fine linen, and whose cradle turned on golden hinges-on whose infant heads shone the sun of prosperity, have expired in the abodes of misery, on a pallet of straw. Others have lost their reputation, if they saved themselves from want; and when they might have "rode the waves of glory," have sunk into dishonorable graves. The most melancholy instance within my memory is here recorded.

THOMAS CHARLES HAMPTON was born on the 28th of June, 1777-the day on which the battle of Monmouth was fought. His parents were opulent and pious. He was a fine-formed infant, and grew rapidly, with a healthy consti

tution. His fond and intelligent mother took great pains to develope his infant faculties. She taught him to read, while other children of the same age could not name the letters of the alphabet. From the nursery, he passed to the school-room, much younger than other boys. At seven years of age, he commenced the study of the Latin language, and made wonderful progress. He was, in temper, as extraordinary as in person. His hair curled in golden ringlets over his forehead, and they were the admiration of all beholders.

At an examination of the school, when he was quite a child, an aged divine called him, after hearing his recitations, an infant Adonis; to which the child replied, “I hope it will not be my fate to be killed by a wild boar." This quick and classical observation still more astonished his examiner. He was the best-natured boy in the school. The boys who were not so forward as himself, knew where to go for assistance in the classics: his own lesson was soon treasured up, and then he was ready to assist all who required his aid. Hampton never missed a recitation, and seldom-came to his task without being master of it. At fourteen years of age, he left his preparatory school for Harvard College, forward of his classmates in geography, history, languages, and general information. He soon became a favorite in his class, and was called Little Hampton by way of affection, and was the friend of every one. This popularity soon proved an injury to him; for he was so much courted, that he was under the necessity, as he thought, of spending much of his time in company. He did not feel the effects of this at first, he was so much better prepared for college studies than most of his associates; but after his second year he was forced to be more studious, as the lessons did not depend so much on memory as on

judgement and reflection. He bent his mind to his tasks, but two years' negligence required hard labor to redeem. His resolution, however, did not flag, and he graduated, if not the first, still among the first of his class. As a speaker, he had no rival. His eloquence formed an era in college history. His memory was tenacious, and his voice one of great compass and sweetness. The chapel was always crowded, when it was known that Hampton was to declaim. This reputation brought him acquainted with several distinguished actors, then lately arrived in this country, and who were deservedly popular-Hodgkins, Jones, Taylor, Chalmers, Villiers, and others. He often met them, and passed a delightful evening in their company; and such were the fascinations of their colloquial powers, that he could not refrain from meeting them often: and as they could not begin the pleasures of the evening until their stage duties were over, it was necessarily very late when the social circle broke up. In the parties of these actors and wits, there were often many elegant minds, who were enamored with the charm of the drama. They thought a play-house the Eden of life. Many of these young men paid dearly for indulging this passion, suffering many years before this delusion passed away.

No man ever possessed higher qualifications for a table companion than Hampton: he could sing enchantingly, and had committed to memory a great number of songs, gay and solemn. He was full of anecdotes, and admirable at attack and retort, in the conversation of the social circle. His flashes of wit were dazzling, but he never scorched or wounded his friends, however warm the dialogue might be. If he bent his bow with more than mortal vigor, his arrows, like those of Ascanius, passed off in a harmless blaze of light, all knowing that the archer was a favorite of the gods,

C