had grown rich, but
exhibited none of the airs of a presumptuous millionaire. He was too
dignified to be insolent.

Well do I remember, on a certain day, when the captain, now quite an old
man, was near the close of his career, calling at his shop with my
cousin Caroline, commissioned by her mother to purchase with ready
money a piece of Irish linen. When she had examined the captain's stock,
and was about to make a purchase, she happened casually to remark that
Irish linen was sold sometimes at a lower price.

"O yes, my dear," answered the captain--he always called a lady, old or
young, "my dear"--"O yes; you can buy Irish linen over the way, where
the big sign is, for less money. They will sell it to you, I dare say,
at half price, and cheat you at that. But their goods are not like mine.
They will generally take less than they ask you at first; but I never
have but one price. I was bred a merchant before chaffering came into
fashion. You can go and trade with them if you like, however."

Poor Caroline, who had not been aware of the captain's weak point,
hastened to apologize, concluded her purchase, and was careful in future
to respect the captain's sensitiveness on the subject of cheap goods.

Ere I left my native village to become a wanderer over the wide world,
the captain had been gathered to his fathers. Having no relatives, he
directed the executors of his will to apply his handsome fortune to the
establishment of an asylum for orphans, which still remains a monument
of his sterling goodness and public spirit.

TO A. E. B., OR HER WHO UNDERSTANDS IT

BY ADALIZA CUTTER.

DEAREST, my sad and lonely breast
Is full to-night of thoughts of thee,
And as the tired dove seeks its nest,
With its dear little ones to be,
E'en thus my weary spirit turns
To thee, for whom it fondly yearns,
And flies unfettered o'er the sea:
Upon thy breast it folds its wing,
And there its sweetest song doth sing.

I am thinking of those twilight hours
When, hand in hand, we used to rove;
When little birds in sylvan bowers
Awoke the echoes of the grove;
When flowers closed up their dewy eyes,
And o'er us arched those cloudless skies,
Smiling upon our mutual love:
And oh, my heart doth sadly yearn
For hours that may no more return!