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. From an inheritance of 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.

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 Meeta'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 yourself; 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 popu lar 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 appreci ated 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 affec tion. 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

dare to bring to me a heart whose altars are soiled with the ashes of the sacrifices which you offered up in other days. Clarence Grenville! is this the return for the unbounded love which I have poured upon. you?-no, not upon you, but the ideal with whom I fancied I had exchanged a heart as fresh, and pure, and fervent as my own."

"Ah, Clarence, my German books are all the world to me in your absence; there I live over all the happiness I experience in your presence, and sometimes I so identify myself with the feelings of some favorite character, that I forget the matter-of-fact world of now-a-days."

"Then is the present matter-of-fact' so disagreeable to you, Meeta ?"

"Oh, no, Clarence; I am far happier than any of my heroines since we have met; so happy, that I sometimes tremble lest the bright dreams which gilded my pathway so suddenly and beautifully vanish. Shall I tell you my last night's dream, Clarence ?"

"Certainly, dearest; but I am sure with your strong mind you are not in the least superstitious; although I easily divine that the dream was not a pleasant one by the Madonna-like look which you wear. There -your eyes a trifle lower: that will do. Now your expression is exactly that of Ellen Gray, my first love. I must tell you all about that, Meeta."

Meeta's eyes were turned full upon Clarence Grenville's before his last sentence was finished. Slowly from her cheeks the rosehue faded, and strangely hoarse was her voice as she said, "Clarence, you have surely never loved before !"

"Most assuredly I have, my loveliest and my best," he replied, at the same time vainly endeavoring to imprison the hand she had withdrawn.

"Oh, Clarence, this is terrible!-this is cruel! You have loved before, and yet you

Clarence looked upon Meeta with sur

prise.

strong or less abiding, because my fancies have been enthralled before. You will not let such a trifling cause interfere with onr happiness, Meeta? My love for you is too deep for such bubbles upon the surface of the past to affect for a moment."

Slowly from her cushioned seat Meeta arose; there were no tears in her eyes, but the pupils were painfully dilated, and her colorless cheeks and lips bore unmistakable signs of the struggles of her proud heart. For one moment she paused in front of her betrothed-with a low whisper she bowed her head.

"Take back this ring, Clarence—our marriage can never be, and henceforth I am to you only as a bubble upon the waters of the past. God in mercy grant that it may disturb the serenity of my life no more than it will yours."

Another moment, and she had gone. How bewildered was the look which Clarence cast upon the closing door; with what wild energy did he spring forward-it was too late.

He seized the pencil which lay upon Meeta's escritoire, and wrote hurriedly upon a blank sheet of note-paper:

"For God's sake, Meeta, come back to me-for my sake, come-for my own sweet sake, beloved. Too closely woven are the inmost fibres of our hearts for this rude blow to separate. Come to me, darling: I will tell you all. I have not one thought which I would hide from you—come, and let these moments of unnecessary torments cease. For ever thine, and thine only,

"CLARENCE."