Town and Country; Or, Life at Home and Abroad, Without and Within Us

ROME was enjoying the blessings of peace; and so little employment attended the soldier's every-day life, that the words "as idle as a soldier" became a proverb indicative of the most listless inactivity.

The people gave themselves up to joy and gladness. The sound of music was heard from all parts of the city, and perfumed breezes went up as an incense from the halls of beauty and mirth.

It was, indeed, a blessed time for the city of the seven hills; and its people rejoiced as they had not for many a long, long year-ay, for a century.

"Peace, sweet peace, a thousand blessings attend thy glad reign. See you how quietly the peasant's flocks graze on our eternal hills? The tinkling bell is a sweeter sound than the trumpet's blast; and the curling smoke, arising from the hearth-stones of contented villagers, is a truer index of a nation's power than the sulphurous cloud from the field of battle. What say you, Alett,-is it not?"

Thus spake a youth of noble mien, as he stood with one arm encircling the waist of a lady, of whose beauty it were useless to attempt a description. There are some phases of beauty which pen cannot describe, nor pencil portray,-a beauty which seems to hover around the form, words, and motions of those whose special recipients it is; a sort of ethereal loveliness, concentrating the tints of the rainbow, the sun's golden rays, and so acting upon the mind's eye of the observer as almost to convince him that a visitant from a sphere of perfection is in his presence.

Such was that of Alett. She was the only daughter of a distinguished general, whose name was the terror of all the foes, and the confidence of all the friends, of Italy-his eldest daughter; and with love approaching idolatry he cherished her. She was his confidant. In the privacy of her faithful heart he treasured all his plans and purposes. Of late, the peaceful security in which the nation dwelt gave him the opportunity of remaining at home, where, in the companionship of a wife he fondly loved, children he almost idolized, and friends whose friendship was not fictitious, he found that joy and comfort which the camp could never impart.

Alett was ever in the presence of her father, or the young man whose apostrophe to peace we have just given.

Rubineau was not the descendant of a noble family, in the worldly acceptation of the term. It was noble, indeed, but not in deeds of war or martial prowess. Its nobleness consisted in the steady perseverance in well-doing, and a strict attachment to what conscience dictated as right opinions. The general loved him for the inheritance he possessed in such traits of character, and the love which existed between his daughter and the son of a plebeian was countenanced under such considerations, with one proviso; which was, that, being presented with a commission, he should accept it, and hold himself in readiness to leave home and friends when duty should call him to the field of battle.

We have introduced the two standing on a beautiful eminence, in the rear of the general's sumptuous mansion.

The sun was about going down, and its long, golden rays streamed over hill and dale, palace and cot, clothing all in a voluptuous flow of rich light.

They had stood for several moments in silence, gazing at the quiet and beautiful scene before them, when the musical voice of Rubineau broke forth in exclamations of delight at the blessings of peace.

Alett was not long in answering. It was a theme on which she delighted to dwell. Turning the gaze of her large, full eyes up towards those of Rubineau, she said,

"Even so it is. Holy Peace! It. is strange that men will love the trumpet's blast, and the smoke and the heat of the conflict, better than its gentle scenes. Peace, peace! blessings on thee, as thou givest blessings!"

Rubineau listened to the words of his Alett with a soul of admiration. He gazed upon her with feelings he had never before felt, and which it was bliss for him to experience.

She, the daughter of an officer, brought up amid all the glare and glitter, show and blazonry, of military life,-she, who had seen but one side of the great panorama of martial life,-to speak thus in praise of peace, and disparagingly of the profession of her friends-it somewhat surprised the first speaker.

"It is true," he replied; "but how uncertain is the continuance of the blessings we now enjoy! To-morrow may sound the alarm which shall call me from your side to the strife and tumult of war. Instead of your gentle words, I may hear the shouts of the infuriated soldiery, the cry of the wounded, and the sighs of the dying."

"Speak not so," exclaimed Alett; "it must not be."

"Do you not love your country?" inquired the youth.

"I do, but I love Rubineau more. There are warriors enough ready for the battle. It need not be that you go. But why this alarm? We were talking of peace, and, behold, now we have the battle-field before us-war and all its panoply!"

"Pardon me, my dearest Alett, for borrowing trouble; but at times, when I am with you, and thinking of our present joy, the thought will arise that it may be taken from us." No more words were needed to bring to the mind of Alett all that filled that of Rubineau. They embraced each the other more affectionately than ever, and silently repaired to the house of the general.

"To remain will be dishonor; to go may be death! When a Roman falls, the foe has one more arrow aimed at his heart; an arrow barbed with revenge, and sent with unerring precision. Hark! that shout is music to every soldier's ear. Hear you that tramp of horsemen? that rumbling of chariot-wheels?"

Twelve months had passed since the time of the last chapter, and, after repeated threatening, war had actually begun. Instead of idle hours, the soldiers had busy moments, and every preparation was made to meet the opposing array in a determined manner, and with a steadiness of purpose that should insure success.

The general watched for some time the fluctuating appearance of public affairs, and it was not until war was not only certain, but actually in progress, that he called upon Rubineau to go forth.

A week hence Rubineau and Alett were to be united in marriage; and invitations had been extended far and near, in anticipation of the event. It had been postponed from week to week, with the hope that the various rumors that were circulated respecting impending danger to the country might prove untrue, or at least to have a foundation on some weak pretence, which reasonable argument might overthrow.

Day by day these rumors increased, and the gathering together of the soldiery betokened the certainty of an event which would fall as a burning meteor in the midst of the betrothed and their friends.

The call for Rubineau to depart was urgent, and its answer admitted of no delay.

"To remain," said the general, "will be dishonor; to go may be death: which will you choose?"

It was a hard question for the young man to answer. But it must be met. The general loved him, and with equal unwillingness the question was presented and received.

"I go. If Rubineau falls-"

"If he returns," exclaimed the general, interrupting him, "honor, and wealth, and a bride who loves and is loved, shall be his-all his."

It was a night of unusual loveliness. The warm and sultry atmosphere of the day had given place to cool and gentle breezes. The stars were all out, shining as beacons at the gates of a paradise above; and the moon began and ended her course without the attendance of one cloud to veil her beauties from the observation of the dwellers on earth.

Rubineau and Alett were seated beneath a bower, cultivated by the fair hand of the latter.

The next morning Rubineau was to depart. All the happy scenes of the coming week were to be delayed, and the thought that they might be delayed long-ay, forever-came like a shadow of evil to brood in melancholy above the place and the hour.

We need not describe the meeting, the parting.

"Whatever befalls me, I shall not forget you, Alett. Let us hope for the best. Yet a strange presentiment I have that I shall not return."

"O that I could go with you!" said Alett. "Think you father would object?"

"That were impossible. Nothing but love, true and enduring, could make such a proposal. It would be incurring a two-fold danger."

"Death would be glorious with you,-life insupportable without you!"

In such conversation the night passed, and when the early light of morning came slowly up the eastern sky, the sound of a trumpet called him away.

The waving of a white flag was the last signal, and the general, all unused to tears as he was, mingled his with those of his family as the parting kiss was given, and Rubineau started on a warfare the result of which was known only to Him who governs the destinies of nations and of individuals.

And now, in the heat of the conflict, the war raged furiously. Rubineau threw himself in the front rank, and none was more brave than he. It seemed to his fellow-officers that he was urged on by some unseen agency, and guarded from injury by some spirit of good.

To himself but one thought was in his mind; and, regardless of danger, he pressed forward for a glorious victory, and honor to himself and friends.

Those whose leader he was were inspirited by his courageous action, and followed like true men where he led the way.

They had achieved several victories, and were making an onset upon numbers four-fold as large as their own, when their leader received a severe wound, and, falling from his noble horse, would have been trampled to death by his followers, had not those who had seen him fall formed a circle around as a protection for him.

This serious disaster did not dampen the ardor of the soldiers; they pressed on, carried the point, and saw the foe make a rapid retreat.

The shouts of victory that reached the ears of Rubineau came with a blessing. He raised himself, and shouted, "On, brave men!" But the effort was too much for him to sustain for any length of time, and he fell back completely exhausted.

He was removed to a tent, and had every attention bestowed upon him. As night approached, and the cool air of evening fanned his brow, he began to revive, but not in any great degree.

The surgeon looked sad. There was evidently reason to fear the worst; and, accustomed as he was to such scenes, he was now but poorly prepared to meet it.

"Rubineau is expiring," whispered a lad, as he proceeded quietly among the ranks of soldiers surrounding the tent of the wounded.

And it was so. His friends had gathered around his couch, and, conscious of the approach of his dissolution, he bade them all farewell, and kissed them.

"Tell her I love, I die an honorable death; tell her that her Rubineau fell where the arms of the warriors clashed the closest, and that victory hovered above him as his arm grew powerless; and, O, tell her that it was all for her sake,-love for her nerved his arm, and love for her is borne upward on his last, his dying prayer. Tell her to love as I-"

"He is gone, sir," said the surgeon.

"Gone!" exclaimed a dozen voices.

"A brave man has fallen," remarked another, as he raised his arm, and wiped the flowing tears from his cheek.

At the mansion of the old general every arrival of news from the war sent a thrill of joy through the hearts of its inmates. Hitherto, every despatch told of victory and honor; but now a sad chapter was to be added to the history of the conflict.

Alett trembled as she beheld the slow approach of the messenger, who, at all previous times, had come with a quick step. In her soul she felt the keen edge of the arrow that was just entering it, and longed to know all, dreadful though it might be.

Need we describe the scene of fearful disclosure? If the reader has followed the mind of Alett, as from the first it has presumed, conjectured, and fancied,-followed all its hopes of future bliss, and seen it revel in the sunshine of honor and earthly fame,-he can form some idea, very faint though it must be, of the effect which followed the recital of all the facts in regard to the fallen.

In her wild frenzy of grief, she gave utterance to the deep feelings of her soul with words that told how deep was her sorrow, and how unavailing every endeavor which friends exerted to allay its pangs.

She would not believe him dead. She would imagine him at her side, and would talk to him of peace, "sweet peace," and laugh in clear and joyous tones as she pictured its blessings, and herself enjoying with him its comforts.

Thus, with enthroned reason, she would give vent to grief; and, with her reason dethroned, be glad and rejoice.

And so passed her lifetime.

Often, all day long, attired in bridal raiment, the same in which she had hoped to be united indissolubly to Rubineau, she remained seated in a large oaken chair, while at her side stood the helmet and spear he had carried forth on the morning when they parted. At such times, she was as calm as an infant's slumberings, saying that she was waiting for the sound of the marriage-bells; asked why they did not ring, and sat for hours in all the beauty of loveliness-the Warrior's Bride.

THE ADVENT OF HOPE.

ONCE on a time, from scenes of light

An angel winged his airy flight;

Down to this earth in haste he came,

And wrote, in lines of living flame,

These words on everything he met,-

"Cheer up, be not discouraged yet!"

Then back to heaven with speed he flew,

Attuned his golden harp anew;

Whilst the angelic throng came round

To catch the soul-inspiring sound;

And heaven was filled with new delight,

For HOPE had been to earth that night.

CHILD AND SIRE.

"KNOW you what intemperance is?"

I asked a little child,

Who seemed too young to sorrow know,

So beautiful and mild.

It raised its tiny, blue-veined hand,

And to a church-yard near

It pointed, whilst from glistening eye

Came forth the silent tear.

"Yes, for yonder, in that grave,

Is my father lying;

And these words he spake to me

While he yet was dying:

"'Mary, when the sod lies o'er me

And an orphan child thou art,-

When companions ask thy story,

Say intemperance aimed the dart.

When the gay the wine-cup circle,

Praise the nectar that doth shine,

When they'd taste, then tell thy story,

And to earth they'll dash the wine.'

"And there my dear-loved mother lies,-

What bitter tears I've shed

Over her grave!-I cannot think

That she is really dead.

And when the spring in beauty blooms,

At morning's earliest hour

I hasten there, and o'er her grave

I plant the little flower.

"And patiently I watch to see

It rise from out the earth,

To see it from its little grave

Spring to a fairer birth.

For mother said that thus would she,

And father, too, and I,

Arise from out our graves to meet

In mansions in the sky.

"O, what intemperance is, there's none

On earth can better tell.

Intemperance me an orphan made,

In this wide world to dwell;

Intemperance broke my mother's heart,

It took my father's life,

And makes the days of man below

With countless sorrows rife."

"Know you what intemperance is?"

I asked a trembling sire,

Whose lamp of life burned dim, and seemed

As though 'twould soon expire.

He raised his bowd head, and then

Methought a tear did start,

As though the question I had put

Had reached his very heart.

He raised his head, but 't was to bow

It down again and sigh;

Methought that old man's hour had come

In which he was to die.

Not so; he raised it up again,

And boldly said, "I can!

Intemperance is the foulest curse

That ever fell on man.

"I had a son, as fair, as bright

As ever mortal blest;

And day passed day, and year passed year,

Whilst I that son carest.

For all my hopes were bound in him;

I thought, from day to day,

That when old age should visit me

That son would be my stay.

"I knew temptations gathered near,

And bade him warning take,-

Consent not, if enticed to sin,

E'en for his father's sake.

But in a fearful hour he drank

From out the poisonous bowl,

And then a pang of sorrow lodged

Within my inmost soul.

"A year had passed, and he whom I

Had strove in vain to save

Fell, crushed beneath intemperance,

Into a drunkard's grave.

O, brother, I can tell to thee

What vile intemperance is,

When one in whom I fondly hoped

Met such an end as his!

"This was not all; a daughter I

Was blest with, and she passed

Before me like an angel-form

Upon my pathway cast.

She loved one with a tender love,

She left her father's side,

And stood forth, in her robes of white,

A young mechanic's bride.

"She lived and loved, and loved and lived,

For many a happy year;

No sorrow clouded o'er her path,

But joy was ever near.

Ay, those were pleasant hours we spent,

Were joyful ones we passed;

Alas! too free from care were they

On earth to always last.

"Then he was tempted, tasted, drank,

And then to earth he fell;

And ever after misery

Within that home did dwell.

And soon he died, as drunkards die,

With scarce an earthly friend,

Yet one bent o'er him tenderly

Till life itself did end,

"And when life's chord was broken, when

His spirit went forth free,

In all her anguish then she came

To bless and comfort me.

Yet she, too, died, ere scarce twelve months

Had passed o'er her head,

And in yon much-loved church-yard now

She resteth with the dead.

That little child you spoke to is

The child she left behind;

I love her for her mother's sake,

And she is good and kind.

And every morning, early, to

Yon flowery grave she'll go;

And I thank my God she's with me

To bless me here below.

"I had a brother, but he died

The drunkard's fearful death;

He bade me raise a warning voice

Till Time should stay my breath.

And thousands whom in youth I loved

Have fallen 'neath the blast

Of ruin which intemperance

Hath o'er the wide world cast."

He spoke no more,-the gushing tears

His furrowed cheeks did leap;

The little child came quick to know

What made the old man weep.

He, trembling, grasped my hand and said

(The little child grasped his),

"May you ne'er know, as I have known,

What sad intemperance is!"

And since that hour, whene'er I look

Around me o'er the earth,

And see the wine-cup passing free

'Mid scenes of festive mirth,

I think how oft it kindleth up

Within its raging fire,

And fain would tell to all the truths

I heard from "Child and Sire."

A BROTHER'S WELCOME.

WELCOME, brother, welcome home!

Here's a father's hand to press thee;

Here's a mother's heart to bless thee;

Here's a brother's will to twine

Joys fraternal close with thine;

Here's a sister's earnest love,

Equalled but by that above;

Here are friends who once did meet thee,

Gathered once again to greet thee.

Welcome, brother, welcome home!

Thou hast wandered far away;

Many a night and many a day

We have thought where thou might'st be,

On the land or on the sea;

Whether health was on thy cheek,

Or that word we dare not speak

Hung its shadowy wing above thee,

Far away from those who love thee.

Welcome, brother, welcome home!

Here, where youthful days were spent

Ere life had its labor lent,

Where the hours went dancing by,

'Neath a clear, unclouded sky.

And our thanks for blessings rendered

Unto God were daily tendered,

Here as ever pleasures reign,

Welcome to these scenes again!

THE IMMENSITY OF CREATION.

IT is well for man to consider the heavens, the work of God's hands; the moon and the stars, which he has created. To look forth upon the universe, of which we form a part, fills us with high and ennobling thoughts, and inspires us with an earnest desire to press onward in the endless path, at every step of which new wonders and new joys spring up to greet our vision, and to gladden our souls.

Whichever way we look, above or below us, to the right or the left, we find a boundless expanse teeming with life and its enjoyments. This earth, large as it may appear to us, is less than a grain of sand in size, when compared with the vastness around it.

Take your soul away from earth, and send it on a mission of research among other worlds. Let it soar far away to where the dog-star, Sirius, holds its course; and then, though nineteen billion two hundred million miles from earth, a distance so great, that light, travelling, as it does, at the rate of six million six hundred and twenty thousand miles a minute, would require three years to pass it,-even then, when the journeying spirit had reached such a point, it might pass on and on,-new worlds meeting its gaze at every advance, and new wonders being seen as far beyond the point it had attained as the inconceivable length of the path it had already travelled multiplied a myriad of times.

We can scarcely comprehend the vast distance of Sirius; yet, great as this distance is, it is the nearest star to our system, and stars have been seen whose distance from the earth is estimated to be a thousand times as great!

Can human mind mark that range? A thousand times nineteen billion two hundred million! And were we to stand on the last of these discovered stars, we might look yet far beyond, and see "infinity, boundless infinity, stretching on, unfathomed, forever."

To have an idea of the vastness of creation, we must possess the mind of the Creator. What are we? We live and move and have our being on a grain of creation, that is being whirled through boundless space with inconceivable rapidity. And we affect to be proud of our estate! We build houses and we destroy them; we wage war, kill, brutify, enslave, ruin each other; or, we restore, beautify, and bless. We are vain, sometimes. We think the world was made for us; the stars shine for us, and all the hosts that gem the drapery of night created for our special benefit. Astonishing presumption!-born of ignorance and cradled in credulity!

The mind grows dizzy as it attempts to conceive of constellation beyond constellation, on and on, through endless space.

Commencing with this earth, the mind given up to serious reflection muses upon its broad extent of territory, its continents and its oceans, and it appears very large indeed. Forgetting, for a moment, its knowledge of other planets, it believes that this world is the whole universe of God; that the sun, moon and stars, are but lights in the firmament of heaven to give light upon the earth. But truth steps in and change the mind's view. It shows that, large and important as this earth may appear, the sun, which is spoken of as inferior, is three hundred and fifty-four thousand nine hundred and thirty six times larger; and the stars, that seem like diamond points above us, are, many of them, larger than the sun, one being one billion eight hundred million miles in diameter. Yet, such a bulk, when compared to the universe, is less than a monad.

A "monad" is an indivisible atom. It is as incomprehensible as the mysteries of creation, or the duration of eternity.

Tripoli, or rotten-stone, an article used in every family, and tons of which are daily employed in manufactories, is composed entirely of animalcul. In each cubic inch there are forty-one billion, that is, forty-one million-million of these living, breathing creatures, each of whom has organs of sight, hearing and digestion. Think, if you can, of the internal organization of beings a million of whom could rest on the point of a cambric needle!

But there are more minute forms of creation than even those. Deposit a grain, the four hundred and eightieth part of an ounce of musk, in any place, and, for twenty years, it will throw off exhalations of fragrance, without causing any perceptible decrease of weight. The fragrance that for so many years goes forth from that minute portion of matter is composed of particles of musk. How small must each of those particles be, that follow each other in ceaseless succession for twenty years, without lessening, to any perceptible degree, the weight of the deposit! And yet we have not reached the monad. A celebrated author

Niewentyt. made a computation which led to the conclusion that six billion as many atoms of light flow from a candle in one second as there are grains of sand in the whole earth, supposing each cubic inch to contain one million!

Here we must stop. Further advances are impossible, yet our end is not attained; we have not yet reached the monad, for the animalcul and the less sentient particles of matter, light, are not, for they are divisible.

The insect can be divided, because it has limbs with which to move; and an intelligence higher than man can doubtless see emanations from those particles of light. But a monad is indivisible! Think of each cubic inch of this great earth containing a million grains of sand, and those countless grains multiplied by one billion, or a million-million, and that the product only shows the number of particles of light that flow from a candle in one second of time!-and not a monad yet! Minds higher than ours can separate each of these particles, and yet perhaps they find not the indivisible, but assign over to other minds the endless task.

With such thoughts let us return to our first point, and remark that the star tens of billions of miles distant, one billion eight hundred million miles in diameter, is but a monad when compared with the creations of the vast universe of God!

Here the mind sinks within itself, and gladly relinquishes the herculean task of endeavoring to comprehend, for a single moment, a fractional part of the stupendous whole.

Deep below us, high above us, far as the eye of the mind can see around us, are the works of our Creator, marshalled in countless hosts. All animated by his presence, all breathed upon by his life, inspired by his divinity, fostered by his love, supported by his power.

And in all things there is beauty-sunbeams and rainbows; fragrant flowers whose color no art can equal. In every leaf, every branch, every fibre, every stone, there is a perfect symmetry, perfect adaptation to the conditions that surround it. And thus it is, from the minutest insect undiscernible by human eye, to the planet whose size no figures can represent. Each and all the works of God order governs, symmetry moulds, and beauty adorns.

There are all grades of beings, from the monad to the highest intelligences, and man occupies his position in the endless chain. Could you hear and see, as seraphs listen and behold, you would hear one continuous song of glad praise go up from all creation; you would see all things radiant with smiles, reflecting the joys of heaven. And why? Because they follow nature's leading, and, in doing so, live and move in harmony.

Who can scale the heights above us, or fathom the depths below us? Who can comprehend the magnitude of countless worlds that roll in space-the distance that separates the nearest orb from our earth, the worlds of being in a drop of water, the mighty array of angel forms that fill immensity?

Well may we exclaim, "Great and marvellous are thy works, O Lord of

Hosts, and that my soul knoweth right well!"

A VISION OF HEAVEN.

NIGHT had shed its darkness round me;

Wearied with the cares of day,

Rested I. Sleep's soft folds bound me,

And my spirit fled away.

As on eagle pinions soaring,

On I sped from star to star,

Till heaven's high and glistening portals

Met my vision from afar.

Myriad miles I hasted over;

Myriad stars I passd by:

On and on my tireless spirit

Urged its ceaseless flight on high.

Planets burned with glorious radiance,

Lighting up my trackless way;

On I sped, till music coming

From the realms of endless day

Fell upon my ear,-as music

Chanted by celestial choirs

Only can,-and then my spirit

Longed to grasp their golden lyres

Stood I hear that portal wondering

Whether I could enter there:

I, of earth and sin the subject,

Child of sorrow and of care!

There I stood like one uncalled for,

Willing thus to hope and wait,

Till a voice said, "Why not enter?

Why thus linger at the gate?

"Know me not? Say whence thou comest

Here to join our angel band.

Know me not? Here, take thy welcome-

Take thine angel-sister's hand."

Then I gazed, and, gazing, wondered;

For 't was she who long since died,-

She who in her youth departed,

Falling early at my side.

"Up," said she, "mid glorious temples!

Up, where all thy loved ones rest!

They with joy will sing thy welcome

To the mansions of the blest.

Mansions where no sin can enter,

Home where all do rest in peace;

Where the tried and faithful spirit

From its trials finds release;

"Golden courts, where watchful cherubs

Tune their harps to holy praise;

Temples in which countless myriads

Anthems of thanksgiving raise."

I those shining portals entered,

Guided by that white-robed one,

When a glorious light shone round me,

Brighter than the noonday sun!

Friends I met whom death had severed

From companionship below;

All were there-and in each feature

Immortality did glow.

I would touch their golden lyres,

When upon my ear there broke

Louder music-at that moment

I from my glad vision woke.

All was silent; scarce a zephyr

Moved the balmy air of night;

And the moon, in meekness shining,

Shed around its hallowed light.

THERE'S HOPE FOR THEE YET.

WHAT though from life's bounties thou mayest have fallen?

What though thy sun in dark clouds may have set?

There is a bright star that illumes the horizon,

Telling thee truly, "There's hope for thee yet."

This earth may look dull, old friends may forsake thee;

Sorrows that never before thou hast met

May roll o'er thy head; yet that bright star before thee

Shines to remind thee "there's hope for thee yet."

'T is but folly to mourn, though fortune disdain thee,

Though never so darkly thy sun may have set;

'T is wisdom to gaze at the bright star before thee,

And shout, as you gaze, "There's hope for me yet."

SOLILOQUY OVER THE GRAVE OF A WIFE.

IT cannot be that thou art dead; that now

I watch beside thy grave, and with my tears

Nourish the flowers that blossom over thee;

I cannot think that thou art dead and gone;

That naught remains to me of what thou wert,

Save that which lieth here,-dust unto dust.

When the bright sun arises, and its rays

Pass noiseless through my chamber, then methinks

That thou art with me still; that I can see

Thy flowing hair; and thy bright glancing eye

Beams on me with a look none other can.

And when at noon life's busy tumult makes

My senses reel, and I almost despair,

Thou comest to me and I'm cheered again;

Thine own bright smile illuminates my way,

And one by one the gathered clouds depart,

Till not a shadow lies upon my path.

Night, with its long and sombre shadows, treads

Upon the steps that morn and noon have trod;

And, as our children gather round my knee,

And lisp those evening prayers thy lips have taught,

I cannot but believe that thou art near.

But when they speak of "mother," when they say

"'T is a long time since she hath left our side,"

And when they ask, in their soft infant tones,

When they again shall meet thee,-then I feel

A sudden sadness o'er my spirit come:

And when sleep holds them in its silken bands

I wander here, to this fair spot they call

Thy grave (as though this feeble earth could hold

Thee in its cold embrace), and weep and sigh;

Yet, trusting, look above to yon bright sphere,

And feel thou art not dead, but living there.

It is not thou that fills this spot of earth,

It is not thou o'er whom these branches wave,

These blooming roses only mark the spot

Where but remaineth that thou couldst not wear

Amid immortal scenes.

Thou livest yet!

Thy feet do tread the golden courts of heaven;

Thy hands have touched the harps that angels use;

Thy eyes have seen the glory of our Lord;

Thy ears have listened to that song of praise

Which angels utter, and which God accepts.

THE FUGITIVES.

THEY had escaped the galling chain and fetters,

Had gained the freedom which they long had sought,

And lived like men-in righteous deeds abettors,

Loving the truth which God to them had taught

Some at the plough had labored late and early;

And some ascended Learning's glorious mount;

And some in Art had brought forth treasures pearly,

Which future history might with joy recount

As gems wrought out by hands which God made free,

But man had sworn should chained and fettered be.

They lived in peace, in quietness, and aided

In deeds of charity-in acts of love;

Nor cared though evil men their works upbraided,

While conscience whispered of rewards above.

And they had wives to love, children who waited

At eve to hear the father's homeward tread,

And clasped the hand,-or else, with joy elated,

Sounding his coming, to their mother sped.

Thus days and years passed by, and hope was bright,

Nor dreamed they of a dark and gloomy night.

Men came empowered, with handcuffs and with warrants,

And, entering homes, tore from their warm embrace

Husbands and fathers, and in copious torrents

Poured forth invective on our northern race,

And done all "lawfully;" because 't was voted

By certain men, who, when they had the might,

Fostered plans on which their passions doted,

Despite of reason and God's law of right;

And, bartering liberties, the truth dissembled,

While Freedom's votaries yielded as they trembled.

Shall we look on and bear the insult given?

O, worse than "insult" is it to be chained,

To have the fetters on thy free limbs riven,

When once the prize of Freedom has been gained.

No! by the granite pointing high above us,

By Concord, Lexington, and, Faneuil Hall,

By all these sacred spots, by those who love us,

We pledge to-day our hate of Slavery's thrall;

And give to man, whoever he may be,

The power we have to make and keep him free.

THE UNIVERSAL JUBILEE.

WHAT shouts shall rise when earth shall hold

Its universal jubilee!

When man no more is bought and sold,

And one and all henceforth are free!

Then songs they'll sing,

That loud shall ring

From rock to rock, from shore to shore.

"Hurra!" they'll shout, "we're free, we're free,

From land to land, from sea to sea,

And chains and fetters bind no more!"

Let every freeman strive to bring

The universal jubilee;

All hail the day when earth shall ring

With shouts of joy, and men are free!

Then each glad voice

Shall loud rejoice,

And chains shall fall from every hand,

Whilst myriad tongues shall loudly tell

The grateful joy of hearts that swell,

Where Freedom reigns o'er sea and land.

TAPVILLE was situated on the borders of one of the most beautiful rivers that grace and refresh the soil of New England. It was once a quiet place, once as perfect in its character as any of its sisterhood. A moral atmosphere pervaded it, and the glorious and divine principle of doing unto others as they would have others do unto them governed its inhabitants; and, therefore, it was not strange that its farmers and storekeepers kept good the proverbial honesty and hospitality of their progenitors. Tradition said (but written history was silent) that a few of those who landed at Plymouth Rock separated from the main body, and took up their abode further in the interior; and that, from these "few," a flourishing company arose, and the place they inhabited was "Springvale." But time and circumstances having much to do with the concerns of earth's inhabitants, changed the character as well as the name of this ancient town, and "Springvale" became "Tapville."

One evening, in the year one thousand eight hundred and I don't remember what, after a somewhat fatiguing ride on horseback all day, my heart was cheered on coming in view of the town. I had never visited Tapville, but, from accounts I had heard, judged it to be a sort of Pandemonium-a juvenile Bedlam. As I entered, troops of children greeted me with shouts, and my horse with stones. Despite of my treatment, I could not but compare their appearance, to say nothing of their conduct, with those I had last seen in another town, thirty miles distant. These were attired in rags, those in good clothing; these with unwashed faces, uncombed hair, and bearing every mark of neglect,-those bright and smiling, happy themselves, and making all around them so.

I did not much fancy my reception, I assure you. My horse seemed wondering at the cause of it, for he suddenly halted, then turned slowly about, and began to canter away with a speed that I thought quite impossible for a beast after a long day's work. I reined him in, turned about, and entered the town by a small and not much frequented pathway.

There was a large building at my left, with a huge sign over its principal door, from which I learned that "Good Entertainment for Man and Beast" might be had within. Appearances, however, indicated that a beast must be a very bad beast who would accept its "entertainment."

A fat man, wearing a green jacket on his back, an old torn and tattered straw hat on his head, and both hands in his pockets, stood lazily at the door; before which half a score of dirty children were playing with marbles, and a short distance from which a couple of children were fighting, upon whose pugilistic exercises a woman, with a child in her arms and a pipe in her mouth, was gazing with intense interest.

The general appearance of the town was far from pleasing. At nearly every window, hats, or shingles, or bundles of rags, took the place of glass, and the doors, instead of being hung on hinges, were "set up," liable to be set down by the first gust of wind.

Near one miserable shantee, poor, very poor apology for a dwelling-house, one man was endeavoring to get another into the house; at least, so I thought; but both were so much intoxicated that I could not tell, for my life, which the latter was. At one moment, the man with the blue coat with the tails cut off seemed to be helping the man without a coat; the next moment, I thought the coatless man was trying to help the other. The fact was, both needed help, which neither could give; so they remained "in a fix."

Now and then, a bare-footed little child would run across my path, and hurry out of sight, as if fearful of being seen where so much that was neither of heaven nor of earth was discernible.

In striking contrast with the want and desolation around, stood a beautiful mansion. Around it was a garden of choice flowers, and the vine, with its rich clusters of luscious grapes, shaded the path to the entrance of the house.

I continued on. Far up a shaded avenue I perceived a small, yet neat cottage, so different in general appearance from those around it, that I turned my way thither, in hopes of resting in quiet, and, if possible, of learning something relative to the town. I alighted, knocked, and soon an old lady requested me to enter, saying that Tommy would see that my horse was cared for. It was a small room that I entered; everything was as neat and clean as a New Year's gift, and there was so much of New England about it, that I felt at home. Near an open window, in an easy-chair, sat a young lady of decidedly prepossessing appearance but evidently wasting beneath that scourge of eastern towns and cities-consumption. There was a hue upon her cheek that was in beautiful contrast with the pure white of her high forehead, and the dark, penetrating eye that flashed with the deep thoughts of her soul.

The old lady was one of those good-natured, motherly women, whom you will find at the firesides of New England homes, generous to a fault; and whom you cannot but love, for the interest she takes in you, and the solicitude she manifests for your welfare.

A repast was soon at hand, and when it was over the lady said,

"You are from Boston, then?"

"Yes," I replied; "and, having heard considerable respecting this place, have come hither to satisfy myself whether or not any good would be likely to result from a temperance lecture here."

"Temperance lecture!" she exclaimed, as she grasped my hand. "Do, sir, for Heaven's sake, do something, do anything you possibly can, to stay the ravages of the rum fiend in this place!"

She would have said more, but she could not. The fountains of her heart seemed breaking, and a flood of tears flowed from her eyes. The daughter buried her face in her hands, and the sighs that arose from both mother and child told me that something had been said that deeply affected them.

Tommy at this moment came in, happy and joyous; but, as soon as he saw his mother and sister weeping, his whole appearance changed. He approached his mother, and, looking up in her face, said, "Don't cry, mother. Jenny will be better soon, and Tommy will work and make you and her happy. Don't cry, mother!"

The child's simple entreaty brought more copiously the tears to the mourner's eyes, and some time elapsed before they became in the least degree comforted.

"You will excuse me, sir," said she, "I know you will, for my grief; but, O, if temperance had been here ten years ago, we should have been so happy!"

"Yes," said the boy; "then father would not have died a drunkard!"

The surmises I had entertained as to the cause of this sorrow were now confirmed; and, at my request, she told me her story, with a hope that it might prove a warning to others.

"You must know, sir, that when we came here to live we were just married. Alfred, my husband, was a good mechanic, industrious, frugal and kind-hearted. He had by his labor and economy accumulated a small amount, enough to purchase an estate consisting of a house, shop and farm. He had many and good customers, and our prospects were very fair. We attended church regularly, for we thought that, after enjoying the bounties of a beneficent Ruler all of six days, it was our duty, as well as privilege, to devote the seventh to His praise.

"Years passed by, when one morning Jenny, who was then about seven years old, came running in, and told me that a new store had been opened; that the man had nothing but two or three little kegs, and a few bottles and tumblers. I went out, and found it as she had stated. There was the man; there was his store; there were his kegs, bottles and tumblers.

"The next day some changes were made; a few signs were seen, and the quiet villagers gazed in wonder, if not admiration, at the inscriptions, 'Rum,' 'Gin,' 'Brandies,' 'Wines and Cigars.' Old men shook their heads, and looked wise. Old women peered from beneath their specs, and gave vent to many predictions. Children asked what the words meant.

"That night I talked with my husband about it. He thought that there was no danger; that social enjoyment would harm no one; and seemed astonished, to use his own words, 'that such a sensible woman as I was should express any anxiety about the matter.' That night, to me, was a long and sad one. I feared the result of the too much dependence on self which he seemed to cherish.

"The rumseller soon gathered a number of townsmen about him. His establishment became a place of frequent resort by many, and soon we had quarrelling neighbors, and disturbances at night. Boys became dishonest, and thus the fruits of the iniquitous traffic became visible.

"I noticed that Alfred was not as punctual in his return as formerly; and my fears that he visited this pest-house of the town were soon confirmed. I hinted to him my suspicions. He was frank, and freely admitted that he visited the bar-room; said he had become acquainted with a few choice spirits, true friends, who had sworn eternal friendship. 'Danger,' said he, 'there is none! If I thought I endangered your happiness, I would not visit it again.' I recollect the moment. He looked me steadily in the face, and, as he did so, a tear escaped my eye. He, smiling, wiped it away, promised that when he saw evil he would avoid it, and left me alone to my reflections.

"But I will be brief. I need not tell you how, step by step, he descended that ladder whose end rested in the grave. I need not tell you how I warned him of dander; how I entreated him to avoid it; how I watched him in sickness, and bathed his fevered brow; how my heart was gladdened when I saw his health returning, and heard his solemn promise to reform.

"Nor need I tell you how he was again led astray, and his hand encircled that cup which he had once dashed aside. O, sir, he was a good man; and, in his sober moments, he would weep like a child, as he thought of his situation! He would come to me and pour out his soul in gratitude for my kindness; and would beg my forgiveness, in the tenderest manner, till his heart became too full for utterance, and his repentance found vent in his tears.

"What could I do but forgive him, as I did a hundred times!

"Disheartened, I became sick. I was not expected to survive; and Jenny, poor, child, watched by my side, and contracted an illness, from which, I fear, she will not be freed till the God she loves calls her home to himself.

"When I recovered, Alfred remained for some time sober and happy. But he fell! Yes, sir; but God knows he tried to stand, and would have done so had not the owner of that groggery, by foul stratagem, hurled him to the ground. I went, my daughter went, friends went, to ask the destroyer of our happiness to desist; but he turned us away with an oath and a laugh, saying, 'he would sell to all who wanted.'

"Frequent exposure brought disease; disease brought death, and my husband died.

"All our property was sold to meet the demands of merciless creditors, the principal one of whom was this very rumseller who turned me from his doors. A friend furnished us with the cottage in which we have since lived. Many kind-hearted friends have gathered around us, and we have been happy, save when the recollections of the past rise before us. Others, beside myself, have had cause to mourn and our town, once inhabited by happy, quiet and contented families, has become noted as a seat of iniquity.

"He who has caused this change is now the wealthiest man in town. You might have seen his stately palace as you rode up, environed with fruits and flowers. He lives there; but, within the shade of that mansion, are the wretched hovels of those upon whose ruin he sits enthroned. He has roses and fruits at his door, but they have been watered by widows' tears; and the winds that reach his home amid rich vines and laden trees may bear to his ears the orphan's cry, from whose mouth he has taken the daily bread."

When the old lady had finished her narrative, she could restrain her tears no longer, and they burst forth as freely as at first.

I inquired whether there were any beside herself who would become interested in a temperance movement. She replied that there were many, but they wished some one to start it.

I had left a gentleman at the town I last came from, who was an eloquent advocate; and my first act, after listening to the widow's narrative, was to write a note, and send it in all possible haste to him.

The next day he came; and, if you could have seen the joy of that family as I told them that we had announced a meeting, you would have some faint idea of the happiness which the temperance reform has produced.

From what I had learned, I expected that we should meet with some opposition from the wealthy individual before alluded to, or from his agents, who were so blinded to their own interests that they could not be easily induced to move for their own good.

The evening came, and the room we had engaged was well filled. My friend arose, when a stone, hurled at him from without, missed its aim, and struck a lamp at his side, dashing it into a hundred fragments. Little disconcerted at this, he began his address; and, in a short time, gained the attention of the audience in so perfect a manner, that they heeded not the attempts of a noisy crowd without to disturb them.

He continued on. Men leaned forward to catch his words, and some arose and stood as motionless as statues, with eyes fixed intently on the speaker. Women wept; some in sorrow for the past, others in joy for the future. A deep feeling pervaded all. The disturbance without ceased, and one by one the disturbers came to the door; one by one they entered, and began to feel the truths which the speakers uttered.

The only interruption was made by an aged man, who bowed his silvery head, and, in trembling accents, moaned out, "My son, my son!" These words, uttered at the expiration of every few minutes, increased the solemnity of the occasion, and added power to the lecturer's remarks, for all knew the story of his son, and all knew that he was carried home dead from the groggery.

When, at the end of the lecture, it was asked who would sign the pledge, the whole assembly started to respond to the call, and each one that night became pledged to total abstinence.

The next day a great excitement existed relative to the groggeries in town; a meeting was called, and a committee appointed to act in a manner they thought best calculated to promote the interests of the people at large.

This committee determined to present the facts to the keepers of the places in question, and request them to renounce the traffic.

The facts were presented. They saw that their customers had all left them, and why should they continue? It would be a losing business.

The effect of the moral suasion had been powerful; it labored with the very soul of the traffic, with those who put the pence in the dealers' coffers. It was more powerful than all laws that could have been enacted. Forbidding them to sell while customers crowded their doors would have had no effect, unless to create riot; inducing their customers to leave them soon induced them to leave the business, for where there are none to buy there will be none to sell.

In view of all this, the rumsellers of Tapville gave up; and, strange to say, joined with the people that night in their rejoicing, and made a bonfire of their stock in trade.

By the light of that fire my friend and I left the town; and when far away we could see its glare, and hear the shouts of a disenthralled people.

After a few months' travel in the south and west, I revisited Tapville, or rather the place where it once stood; but no Tapville was there. The town had regained its former sobriety and quiet, and became "Springvale."

I called at the widow's cottage; Tommy ran out to meet me, and I received a welcome I shall never forget. But Jenny was no more; with her last breath she had blessed the temperance cause, and then her pure spirit winged its way to that home where sorrows never come, and where the troubles of earth are forgotten amid the joys of heaven.

THE BATTLE OF THE RED MEN.

'T WAS cold, bleak winter, on a rock-bound coast,

When bands of exiles trod its frozen shore.

Who then stood forth to greet the coming host

And shelter freely give when storms did pour?

Old Samoset-peace to his memory still!-

He bade them welcome, welcome, with good will.

Then was the red man's nation broad and strong-

O'er field and forest he held firm control;

Then power was his to stay the coming throng,

And back the wave of usurpation roll.

He might have crushed them on old Plymouth's rock,

And freedom to this day have felt the shock.

Not so he willed it; he would have them sit

In peace and amity around his door;

The pipe of peace in friendship would have lit,

And, as its white cloud up towards heaven did soar,

Learned that like it the spirits pure and white

Ascend, to live in never-ceasing light.

But what return did they profusely give

Who were dependent on the red man's corn?

Not even to them the privilege to live,

But war and fire, torture, hate and scorn!

Hunted like wild beasts through the forests' track;

For food and welcome such they gave him back.

Then roused to madness was the Indian's soul,

Then grasped with firmness every one his bow;

No mortal power his purpose could control,

Till he had seen the traitors lying low.

Revenge! revenge! was sounded far and wide,

O'er every field and every river's tide.

The little child that scarce could lisp a word

Was taught to hate the white man; maidens fair

Were roused to fearful vengeance, as they heard

Their brothers' wrongs, and madly tore their hair;

Old men urged on the young, and young men fled

Swift to increase the armies of the dead.

And thus the war began,-the fearful war

That swept o'er happy homesteads like a flood;

The white and red man knew no other law

Than that which wrote its every act in blood.

Daylight beheld the ball and arrow's flight,

And blazing homes made terrible the night.

The rifle's sharp report, the arrow's whiz,

The shout, the yell, the fearful shriek of death;

Despair in him who saw the last of his,

And heard "good-by" from children's dying breath;

The last sad look of prisoners borne away,

And groan of torture, marked the night and day.

With arms more skilful-not with hearts more true,

Or souls more brave to battle for the right-

The white the unjust warfare did pursue,

Till, inch by inch, the red man took his flight

From homes he loved, from altars he revered,

And left, forever, scenes to him endeared.

O, what an hour for those brave people that!

Old men, whose homes were loved as homes can be;

Young men and maidens who had often sat

In love and peace beneath the forest tree;

Parents who'd planted flowers; and with warm tears

Watered the graves of dearest-gone for years!

From every tree a voice did seem to start,

And every shrub that could a shadow cast

Seemed to lament the fate that bade them part,

So closely twined was each one with the past.

O, was it strange they fought with furious zeal?

Say, men who think, and have warm hearts to feel.

And thus they went,-a concourse of wronged men,-

Not with a speedy flight; each inch they gave,

Each blade of grass that passed beyond their ken,

Was sold for blood, and for a patriot's grave;

And white men paid the price-and now they hold

This broad, broad land for cost more dear than gold.

And yet 't is not enough; the cry for more

Hath vexed the Indian, till the Atlantic's wave

Now blends with it the thunder of its roar,

And soon shall sound the requiem o'er the grave

Of the last Indian,-last of that brave band

Who once held sway o'er all this fertile land.

Methinks to-day I see him stand alone,

Drawing his blanket close around his form;

He hath braved all, hath heard the dying moan

Rise from the fields of strife; and now the storm

That hath swept all before it, age on age,

On him, the last, seeks to pour forth its rage.

Raising his hand appealing to the sun,

He swears, by all he hath or now could crave,

That when his life is closed, his life-race run,

A white man ne'er shall stand above his grave.

Shall he, the last of a once noble race,

Consign himself to such a dire disgrace?

Never! let rock to rock the word resound;

Never! bear witness all ye gods to-day;

Never! ye streams and rivers, as ye bound,

Write "Never" on your waves, and bear away;

Tell to the world that, hunted, wronged, abused,

With such reproach he ne'er shall be accused,

The red man's brethren, tell him where are they;

The red man's homes and altars, what their fate?

Shall he who stands the last, the last to-day,

Forget with his last breath to whisper hate?

Hate, deep and fathomless, and boundless too,

Such as to fiendish cruelty is due.

He cannot bear the white man's presence now,

Or bear to hear his name or see his works;

He thinks that wrong is stamped upon his brow,

That in his good deeds selfish purpose lurks.

Has he a cause for this?-review the past,

And see those acts which prompt hate to the last.

Sons of the Pilgrims, who to-day do boast

Of Freedom's favors, ye whose wealth doth lie

From the Atlantic to the Pacific coast!

Let not the race you have supplanted die;

Perish like forest-leaves from off their lands,

Without a just requital at your hands.

O, give them homes which they can call their own,

Let Knowledge light its torch and lead the way;

And meek Religion, from the eternal throne,

Be there to usher in a better day;

Then shall the past be blotted from life's scroll,

And all the good ye may do crown the whole.

SUNLIGHT ON THE SOUL.

O, THAT some spirit form would come,

From the fair realms of heaven above,

And take my outstretched hand in hers,

To bathe me in angelic love!

O that these longing, peering eyes,

Might pierce the shadowy curtain's fold,

And see in radiant robes arrayed,

The friends whose memory I do hold

Close, close within my soul's deep cell!

O, that were well! O, that were well!

I've often thought, at midnight's hour,

That round my couch I could discern

A shadowy being, from whose eye

I could not, ah! I would not turn.

It seemed so sisterly to me,

So radiant with looks of love,

That ever since I've strove to be

More like the angel hosts above.

The hopes, the joys were like a spell,

And it was well! Yes, it was well!

And every hour of day and night

I feel an influence o'er me steal,

So soothing, pure, so holy, bright,

I would each human heart could feel

A fraction of the mighty tide

Of living joy it sends along.

Then why should I complain, and ask

Why none of heaven's angelic throng

Come to this earth with me to dwell,

For all is well,-all, all is well!

A SONG FROM THE ABSENT.

TO THE LOVED ONE AT HOME.

AWAY from home, how slow the hours

Pass wearily along!

I feel alone, though many forms

Around my pathway throng.

There's none that look on me in love,

Wherever I do roam;

I'm longing for thy gentle smile,

My dearest one, at home.

I walk around; strange things I see,

Much that is fair to view;

Man's art and Nature's handiwork,

And all to me is new.

But, ah! I feel my joy were more,

If, while 'mid these I roam,

It could be shared with thee I love,

My dearest one, at home.

Blow, blow ye winds, and bear me on

My long and arduous way!

Move on, slow hours, more swiftly move,

And bring to life the day

When, journey done, and absence o'er,

No more I distant roam;

When I again shall be with thee,

My dearest one, at home.

TWILIGHT FOREST HYMN.

THE HOUR OF PARTING.

FRIENDS who here have met to-day,

Let us sing our parting lay,

Ere we hence do pass away,

Ere the sun doth set.

As we've trod this grassy earth,

Friendships new have had their birth,

And this day of festive mirth

We shall ne'er forget.

Rock, and hill, and shading tree,

Streamlet dancing to the sea,

Gladly though we'd stay with thee,

We must leave you all;

On the tree and on the flower

Comes the evening's twilight hour,

And upon each forest bower

Evening's shadows fall.

Part we now, but through our life,

Hush of peace or jar of strife,

Memory will still be rife

With glad thoughts of thee;

Wheresoe'er our feet may stray,

Memory will retain this day;

Fare thee well-we haste away,

Farewell rock and tree!

THE SUMMER SHOWER.

UP from the lake a mist ascends,

And forms a sea of cloud above,

That hangs o'er earth as if in love

With its green vales; then quick it send

Its blessings down in cooling rain,

On hill and valley, rock and plain.

Nature, delighted with the shower,

Sends up the fragrance of each flower;

Birds carol forth their cheeriest lays,

The green leaves rustle forth their praise.

Soon, one by one, the clouds depart,

And a bright rainbow spans the sky,

That seems but the reflective part

Of all below, fixed there on high.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN AUTOMATON.

EARLY one bright summer morning, as I was perambulating beneath those noble trees that stand the body-guard of one of the most beautiful places of which city life can boast,-Boston Common,-I encountered a man who attracted my special attention by his apparent carelessness of action, and humble bearing. He looked dejected likewise, and I seated myself on the stone seat beside him.

He took me by the sleeve of my coat, and whispered in my ear, "I'm an Automaton, sir." A few more words passed between us, after which, at my request, he gave me a sketch of his life, which I propose to give you in language as nearly his own as possible.

"I was born. I came into this world without any consent of my own, sir, and as soon as I breathed the atmosphere of this mundane state I was bandaged and pinned, and felt very much as a mummy might be supposed to feel. I was then tossed from Matilda to Jerusha, and from Jerusha to Jane, and from Jane to others and others. I tried to laugh, but found I could n't; so I tried to cry, and succeeded most admirably in my effort.

"'He's sick,' said my aunt; and my aunt called a doctor, who, wise man, called for a slip of paper and an errand-boy.

"The next I knew, my head was being held by my aunt, and the doctor was pouring down my throat, which he distended with the handle of a spoon, a bitter potion; pouring it down without any consent of my own, sir.

"Whether I got better or worse I don't know; but I slept for a time, and had a strange dream, of a strange existence, upon which I seemed to have suddenly entered.

"The subsequent year was one in which I figured not largely, but considerably. I made a noise in the world, and was flattered so much by my mother's acquaintances that my nose has been what is vulgarly called 'a pug,' ever since. I did n't have my own way at all, except when I screamed. In that I was not an Automaton. I was myself in that particular; and the more restraint they put upon me, the more freedom I had. I cried independently of all my aunts and cousins. They could n't dictate me in that.

"Years passed on, and I grew older, as a matter of course. I grew without any consent of my own, sir, and found myself in jacket and trousers ditto. I was sent to school, and was told to study Greek and Latin, and Algebra, and Pneumatics, and Hydrostatics, and a dozen or twenty other things, the very names of which I have forgotten, but which I well remember bothered me considerably in those days. I had much rather have studied the laws of my own being; much rather have examined and become acquainted with the architecture of my own bodily frame; much rather have studied something more intimately connected with the realities of my own existence; but they made me study what was repulsive to my own mind, and speak big words which I did n't understand, and which my teacher could n't explain without the aid of a dictionary.

"My parents labored under the strange delusion that I was a wonderful child. I don't know why, unless it was because I did n't know anything of life, and I could repeat a little Latin, stumble through a sentence of Greek, and, after having solved a problem seventy-six thousand times to show my wonderful precociousness, could do it again when called upon. Perhaps I'm extravagant. It was n't more than half that number of times. At any rate, sir, I was thought a prodigy-a most astonishing intellectual-I don't know what,-call it mushroom,-because what I had done so many times I could do again.

"I recollect there was a little youngster of my acquaintance,-a charming, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed boy,-who told me, one day, that he did n't care for the dead languages, he had rather know the live ones. I thought so too, and we talked a long time, down behind old Turner's barn, about what should be and what should n't. But I had to go home. I had to be pulled about, this arm with this wire, and that foot with that wire. I had to do this and that, to study this and study that, because-why, because I was an Automaton, sir. I was born such. 'T was in my bones to be an Automaton.

"My school-days passed, and the minister told my father that if he was him he'd send me to college. He-my father-did n't sleep any, that night. He and my mother kept awake till daylight prognosticating my career, and fixing upon a day when I should go to Cambridge.

"That day came. I remember it was a cloudy day. There was a dull shadow over everything. Yes, even over my heart. I didn't want to go to college. I knew I hadn't been allowed to learn anything I wanted to learn out of it; and I knew I should n't do any better shut up within its old dingy, musty, brick walls. I knew I should n't learn anything there. I had rather be out in the world. I had rather be studying in Nature's great college. I had rather graduate with a diploma from God, written on my heart, than to waste years of life away from the great school of human life; to be told by another how I should go, what I should believe, and how I should act, in the great drama of life. But I had to go, sir,-go to college; for I was an Automaton.

"As I before said, the day was cloudy. Mother dressed me up. For a week preparations had been making for my exit, and finally I went. I was put in a stage where three men were smoking. I objected, and intimated that it would be much better if those who smoked rode on the outside; but my father said, 'hush,' and told me that smoking was common at college, and I must get used to it. When the stage stopped to change horses, the men got out, and swore, and drank brandy; and I asked whether such things were common at college, and whether I had got to get used to them too. But I could n't get any answer.

"The wind blew cold, but my coat was made so small that I could n't button it together. I would have had it loose and easy, and warm and comfortable; but 't was n't fashionable to have it so. Father followed fashion, and I suffered from the cold. I had a nice, soft cap, that I used to wear to church at home; but father thought that, as I was going to the city, I must have a hat; so he had bought me one, and the hard, stiff, ungainly thing was stuck on my head. I had as lieves have had a piece of stove-pipe there. It made my head ache awfully.

"If I had n't been what I was, I should have worn a nice, easy pair of shoes; but I was an Automaton. I was n't anybody; so I was made to wear a pair of thin boots, that clung to my feet a great deal closer than my skin did,-a great deal, sir.

"Well, we reached Cambridge. It's a pretty place, you know; and I rather liked it until I arrived at the college buildings. Then I did n't like the looks of anything, except the green trees, and the grass, and the shady walks. And I wondered where I could learn the most useful knowledge, within or without the college.

"I was ushered in, and my college life began. To narrate to you all that made up that life, would be irksome to me and tedious to you. I was taught much that I didn't believe then, and don't believe now, and don't think I ever shall. I was made to subscribe to certain forms, and with my lips to adopt certain views, which my heart all the time rebelled against, and reason told me were false. But I said I believed, and I did believe after the fashion of the times; for I believe it's fashionable to believe what you don't know anything about, and the more of this belief you have the better you are. So I believed what my teachers told me, because-why, because I was an Automaton.

"When I returned home, I found myself, quite unexpectedly, a lion. All the neighbors flocked in to see the young man who'd been to college, and in the evening a dozen young ladies-marriageable young ladies-called on me. I tried to have a pleasant time; and should have had, if I had n't been pulled and pushed, and made a puppet-show of; made to go through all my college exercises, to please the pride of my immediate relatives, and minister to the wonder-loving souls of their friends. But, though I did n't want to do all this, though I had much preferred to have sat down and had a quiet talk with one or two,-talked over all that had taken place during my absence, our lives and loves,-yet I was obliged to, sir. I was an Automaton.

"One day,-it was but a week after I had returned,-my father took me into his room, and said he had something to say to me. I knew very well, before he said so, that something out of the usual course was to take place; for, all the morning, he had been as serious and reserved as a deacon at a funeral, and I had caught him holding sly talks with my mother in out-of-the-way places.-I knew something was to happen.

"I sat down, and he did. And then he went on to say that I had probably had some thoughts of marriage. I merely responded, 'Some.'

"He then remarked that every young man should calculate to get a wife and settle down; and that 'old folks' had had experience, and knew a vast deal more about such things than young folks did; and that the latter, when they followed the advice of the former, always were well-to-do in the world, always were respected.

"I began to see what he was driving at. I looked very serious at him, and he a great deal more so at me.

"He talked to me half an hour; it was the longest half-hour I had known since I first measured time. He expatiated on the wisdom of old people; told me I was inexperienced. I, who had been to college! I, who had lived a city life! I was inexperienced! But I let him go on-I could n't help it-you know what I was.

"He then drew his chair closer mine, lowered the tone of his voice, and said,

"'I've picked out a wife for you. It's Squire Parsons' daughter, Susan Jane Maria. She'll be an excellent wife to you, and mother to your children.'

"If I had been anything else than what I was, I should have sprang up and declared my own ability to choose a wife for me and 'a mother for my children;' but I did n't do any such thing. I nodded a calm assent to all he said; for you know, sir; I was an Automaton.

"I was to go with my father, that night, and see Susan,-she that was to be my Susan,-O, no, not so; I was to be her Jacob. So, when tea was over, and I had been 'fixed up,'-I was fixed, I tell you,-father led the way over Higginses' rough pasture. I should have gone round, in the road, where it was decent walking, if I had been anybody; but I was n't any one; I was a-well, you know what. I got one of my boots full of water, and father fell down and bruised his nose; but I took off my boot and poured the water out, and he put a piece of court-plaster on his nose,-a great black piece,-and we did n't look as bad as we might, so he said; and so I said, 'of course.'

"Susan was at home, seated in the middle of a great room, as if on exhibition; and perhaps she was,-I thought so. I had seen Susan before, and always disliked her. There was nothing in her personal appearance, or her mind, that pleased me. I never met her without marking her future life as that of an old maid. But she was to be my wife; father said so, mother shouted amen; and I was to love her, and so I said I did, 'of course.'

"It seemed to me that she knew all about what I came for; for she put out her little slim hand, that never made a loaf of bread nor held a needle, but had only fingered the leaves of Greek and Latin Lexicons, and volumes of Zoology and Ornithology, and thrummed piano-keys,-all very well in their place (don't think I depreciate them), but very bad when their place is so large that there's no room for anything else,-very bad, sir.

"As she took my hand she attempted to kiss me; but, being rather shy, I dodged when I saw her lips a-coming, and they went plump on to father's nose, and exploded on his piece of court-plaster.

"It was all fixed that night, and I was to be married one week from the ensuing Sunday.

"We went home. I received a smile from those who were so considerate as to hunt me up a wife.

"If you'd seen the Greentown Gazette a fortnight after, and had looked at the list of marriages, you might have read, 'Married: In this town, by Rev. Ebenezer Pilgrade, Mr. Jacob Jenkins, Jr. (recently from college), to Susan Jane Maria Parsons, estimable daughter of Nehemiah Q. Parsons; all of this place.'

"We lived at home. My wife soon found out what I was, found out that I was an Automaton, and she pulled the wires and put me in motion, in any way she wished. I opened an office, put out a sign, and for a time practised law and physic, and when the minister was sick took his place and preached. I preached just what they wanted me to. I felt more like an Automaton than ever, stuck up in a high box, talking just what had been talked a thousand times from the same place. It would n't do, I was told, to have any ideas of my own; and, if had them, I must n't speak them. So my parish and me got along pretty well.

"Of course I had joined the church. I was told that I must, and so I did; but I won't tell you what my thoughts were in regard to what I was told to believe, for that's delicate ground. I don't know what your religion is, sir, and I might offend you, and I would n't do so for the world. You see I am an Automaton yet. I'll do just as you want me to. I hate to be so; but, somehow or other, I can't be otherwise. It's my nature.

"You think I'm prosy. I won't say much more, for I see you take out your watch as though you wished I'd stop, that you might go; so I'll close with 'finally,' as I do in preaching.

"Well, then, finally, father died, mother died, Susan run off, and I've become almost discouraged. I have three children to take care of, but they are good children. They do just precisely as I tell them, and won't do anything without asking me whether it's right; and I ask somebody else. They have n't got any minds of their own, any more than I have. They'll do just as I tell them. I've nobody in particular now to tell me what I shall do; so I take everybody's advice, and try to do as everybody wants me to do. I've come to Boston on a visit, and shall go back to-night, if you think best.

"Now I've given you my autobiography. You can do just what you want to with it,-print it, if you like. People, perhaps, will laugh at me when they read it; but perhaps there are other Automatons besides me."

He came to a full stop here; and, as it was getting late, I arose, wished him well, bade him good-by, and left. I had proceeded but a few steps, when I felt a touch on my shoulder, and, turning, found it was the Automaton, who had come to ask me whether I thought he had better go home that night.

TO THE UNKNOWN DONOR OF A BOUQUET.

RICHEST flowers of every hue,

Lightly fringed with evening dew;

Sparkling as from Eden's bowers,

Brightly tinted-beauteous flowers!

Thee I've found, and thee I'll own,

Though from one to me unknown;

Knowing this, that one who'll send

Such a treasure is my friend.

Who hath sent thee?-Flora knows,

For with care she reared the rose.

Lo! here's a name!-it is the key

That will unlock the mystery;

This will tell from whom and why

Thou didst to my presence hie.

Wait-the hand's disguised!-it will

Remain to me a mystery still.

But I'm a "Yankee," and can "guess"

Who wove this flowery, fairy tress.

Yea, more than this, I almost know

Who tied this pretty silken bow,

Whose hand arranged them, and whose taste

Each in such graceful order placed.

Yet, if unknown thou 'dst rather be,

Let me wish this wish for thee:

May'st thou live in joy forever,

Naught from thee true pleasure sever;

From thy heart arise no sigh;

May no tear bedew thine eye.

Joys be many, cares be few,

Smooth the path thou shalt pursue;

And heaven's richest blessings shine

Ever on both thee and thine.

Round thy path may fairest flowers,

As in amaranthine bowers,

Bloom and blossom bright and fair,

Load with sweets the ambient air!

Be thy path with roses strewn,

All thy hours to care unknown;

Sorrow cloud thy pathway never,

Happiness be thine forever.

TO A SISTER IN HEAVEN.

SISTER, in thy spirit home,

Knowest thou my path below?

Knowest thou the steps I roam,

And the devious road I go?

Many years have past since I

Bade thee here a sad farewell;

Many past since thou didst die,

Since I heard thy funeral knell.

Thou didst go when thou wast young;

Scarcely hadst thou oped thine eyes

To the world, and it had flung

Its bright sunshine from the skies,

Ere thy Maker called for thee,

Thou obeyed his high behest;

Then I mourned, yet knew thou 'dst be

Throned on high among the blest.

Gently thou didst fold thy wing,

Gently thou didst sink in sleep;

Birds their evening songs did sing,

And the evening shades did creep

Through the casement, one by one,

Telling of departing day;

Then, thou and the glorious sun

Didst together pass away.

Yet that sun hath rose since then,

And hath brought a joy to me;

Emblem 't is time will be when

Once again I shall see thee,-

See thee in immortal bloom,

Numbered with the ransomed throng,

Where no sorrow sheds its gloom

O'er the heart, or chills the song.

Spirit sister, throned on high,

Now methinks I hear thee speak

From thy home within the sky,

In its accents low and meek.

Thou art saying, "Banish sadness;

God is love,-O, trust him over!

Heaven is filled with joy and gladness-

It shall be thy home forever."

This thou sayest, and thy voice,

Like to none of earth I've heard,

Bids my fainting soul rejoice;

Follow God's reveald word,

Follow that, 't is faithful true;

'Mid the trackless maze of this,

It will guide the pilgrim through

To a world of endless bliss.

Sister, in thy spirit home,

Thou dost know my path below,

Thou dost know the steps I roam,

And the road I fain would go.

If my steps would err from right,

If I'd listen to the wrong,

If I'd close my eyes to light,

Mingle with earth's careless throng:

Then wilt thou with power be nigh;

Power which angel spirits wield,

That temptation may pass by,

Be thou near my soul to shield!

As I close this simple lay,

As I over it do bow,

Sister, thou art round my way,

Thou art standing near me now.

I DREAMED OF THEE, LAST NIGHT, LOVE!

I DREAMED of thee last night, love,

And I thought that one came down

From scenes of azure light, love,

The most beautiful to crown.

He wandered forth where diamonds

And jewels rich and rare

Shone brightly 'mid the glittering throng,

Yet crownd no one there.

He passd by all others,

Till he came to where thou stood;

And chose thee as the beautiful,

Because thou wast so good.

And said, as there he crowned thee,

That Goodness did excel

The jewels all around thee

In which beauty seemed to dwell.

For Goodness is that beauty

Which will forever last;

Then, crowning thee most beautiful,

From earth to heaven he passed.

THEY TELL OF HAPPY BOWERS.

THEY tell of happy bowers,

Where rainbow-tinted flowers

Bloom bright with sweetest fragrance, and never, never die;

Where friends are joined forever,

Where parting hours come never,

And that that happier land is far beyond the sky;-

That when this life is ended

The spirit there ascended

Shall meet in happy unison the spirits gone before;

And all that here hath vexed us,

With seeming ill perplexed us,

We shall see was for the best, and God of all adore.

Then, brother, hope and cheer thee,

For glorious hours are near thee,

If thou but livest holy, and hope, and trust, and wait;

Soon, trials all departed,

Thou, heavenward, homeward started,

Shalt find a glorious entrance at heaven's golden gate.

MAN CANNOT LIVE AND LOVE NOT.

MAN cannot live and love not;

Around, beneath, above,

There is that's bright and beautiful,

And worthy of his love;

There is in every object

That works out nature's plan,

Howe'er so low and humble,

That's worth the love of man.

Each blade of grass that springeth

From earth to beauty fair;

Each tiny bird that wingeth

Its course through trackless air;

Each worm that crawls beneath thee,

Each creature, great and small,

Is worthy of thy loving;

For God hath made them all.

Should earthly friends forsake thee,

And earth to thee look drear;

Should morning's dark forebodings

But fill thy soul with fear,

Look up! and cheer thy spirit-

Up to thy God above;

He'll be thy friend forever-

Forever!-"God is Love!"

BETTER THAN GOLD.

"Find we Lorenzo wiser for his wealth?

What if thy rental I inform, and draw

An inventory new to set thee right?

Where is thy treasure? Gold says, 'Not in me!'

And not in me, the diamond. Gold is poor,

Indies insolvent-. Seek it in thyself,

Seek in thy naked self, and find it there."

GOLD is, in itself, harmless-brilliant, beautiful to look upon; but, when man entertains an ungovernable, all-absorbing love of it, gold is his curse and a mill-stone around his neck, drawing him down to earth. How much sorrow that love has caused! O, there is love that is angelic! But high and holy as love is when bestowed upon a worthy object, in like proportion is it base and ignoble when fixed upon that which is unworthy.

It may well be questioned whether, taking a broad view of the matter, gold has not produced more evil than good. Point out, if you can, one crime, be it the most heinous and inhuman of which you can possibly conceive, that has not been perpetrated for the sake of gold, or has not its equal in the history of the battle for wealth. We can conceive of no worse a thing than a human soul idolizing a mass of shining metal, and counting out, with lean and tremulous hands, the coined dollars. Late and early the devotee bows at the shrine. No motive can induce him to remove his fixed gaze from the god he worships. No act too base for him to execute if gold holds out its glittering purse. No tears of widows, no orphan's cry, no brother's famishing look, no parent's imploring gaze, no wife's loving appeal, doth he heed; but on, and on, day by day, night by night, he rakes together the scattered fragments, rears his altar, and lays his soul upon it, a burnt sacrifice to his God.

It was the first day of the trial, and the excitement was intense. The court-house was filled at an early hour to its utmost capacity, whilst the lanes leading to it were completely blocked up with crowds of inquisitive inquirers. The professor left his study, the trader his accounts, and the mechanic dismissed for a while the toil of his avocation.

The judges had arrived; the counsel of both parties were at their respective desks; all were eager to get a full sight-if not this, a passing glance-at the prisoner's face. They were looking for his arrival, and if a close carriage drew near, they believed he was within, until the carriage passing by withered all their hopes, and blasted their fond expectations. Such was the state of feeling when a rumor began to pass round that he, the prisoner, had been privately conveyed into court. Some believed, and some disbelieved; some went away, whilst others remained, not giving up all hope of having their desire gratified.-But why all this?

Pedro Castello, a young man, an Italian by birth, had been indicted, and was soon to be tried, charged with two heinous crimes-murder and robbery. The murdered was an aged person, one of a very quiet and sedate character, whose every movement seemed to be by stealth, and who seemed to care for none but himself, but who took particular interest in what he did care for. This individual had, for quite a number of years, been a resident in the town where the incidents we now propose to relate transpired.

Lorenzo Pedan had the reputation of being wealthy. Whether he was so or not, no one could positively determine; at least, many thought so, and here a farmer, there a mechanic, offered to bet all that he was worth that "Renzo," as he was called, could show his fifty thousand. It was well known that he was once in prosperous business; that then, as the saying is, he moved on "swimmingly." But, two or three years previous to the time we now speak of, he suddenly gave up business, closed his store, hired a small and retired house, and lived in as secluded a state as living in the world and not in a forest would admit of. He was his own master, his own servant, cook and all else. Visitors seldom if ever darkened his door; and, when necessity obliged him to leave his house, it was with the utmost precaution he made fast his door before starting. Proceeding a short distance, he became possessed with the idea that all was not right, and would return to his dwelling closely to scrutinize every part. This and many other characteristics of Pedan induced a belief in the minds of his townsmen that he had by degrees become possessed of an avaricious disposition, and that his miserly views of the "whole duty of man" had induced him to secrete huge boxes of silver, and bags, of gold in crevices of his cellar, vacancies in his chimney, and musty and dusty corners of his garret.

Various were the tricks played upon Lorenzo by the boys of the town. At times they would place logs of wood against his door, and arrange them in such a position that when the door was opened they would inevitably fall in; yet he did not care for this,-we mean he found no fault with this trick, for he usually claimed the fuel for damages occasioned by its coming in too close proximity with his aged self.

Sometimes these "villanous boys," as widow Todd, a notorious disseminator of town scandal, called them, would fasten his door; then, having hid behind some bushes, laugh heartily as they beheld Mr. Pedan exhibit himself at the window, at which place he got out. We will not attempt to relate one half or one quarter of these tricks; we will say nothing of sundry cats, kittens, etc., that were crowded into boxes and marked "Pedro-this side up with infinite care;" nor about certain black, white, and yellow dogs, that were tied to all his door-handles, and made night hideous in the exercise of their vocal powers. We will not weary our readers with such details. Suffice it to say that they were all perpetrated, and that he, the aforesaid Lorenzo Pedan, received the indignities heaped upon him with a degree of patience and fortitude rivalled only by that of the martyrs of the dark ages. He was, in fact, a martyr to his love of gold; and a recompense for all his outward troubles was the satisfaction of knowing that he might be rich some time, if he was prudent.

Lorenzo was undoubtedly rich, yet he derived no enjoyment from his abundance; on the contrary, it caused him much trouble, care, and watchfulness; and not possessing any benevolent feelings, prompting him to spend his gold and silver for his own good or the good of his fellow-men, the poorest man, with all his poverty,-he who only by his daily toil earned his daily bread,-was far more wealthy than he.

He passed on in this way for some time, when, on a certain morning, he not having made his appearance for some days previous, his door was burst open, and the expectations of not a few realized upon finding him murdered. All the furniture and even the wainscotings of the house were thrown about in dread disorder; scarcely an article seemed to be in its right place. The robber or robbers were undoubtedly on the alert for money, and they left no spot untouched where possibly they might find it. They pulled up parts of the floor, tore away the ceiling, and left marks of their visit from cellar to garret.

Immediate efforts were made and measures taken to ferret out the perpetrator of this daring crime. These were, for a considerable length of time, fruitless, and, the excitement that at first arose being somewhat quelled, some thought the search that had been instituted was given, or about to be given, up, when a man by the name of Smith came forward, and stated that, about nine days previous to the discovery, as he was passing the house of the deceased, he heard a faint cry, as of one in distress, and, turning round, noticed a young man running in great haste. He, at the time, thought little of this incident, as he supposed the boys were engaged in some of their tricks. It had entirely passed his recollection, until, hearing of the murder, he instantly recollected the circumstance, and now he did not entertain a doubt that the young man whom he saw was the murderer.

It appeared strange to some that this man had not made all this known before; and that now, at so late a period, he should come forward and with such apparent eagerness make the disclosures. Being asked why he had not come forward before, he promptly replied that he did not wish to suspect any person, for fear he might be mistaken.

Efforts were now made, and excitement had again risen, to find out a young man answering the description given by Smith, whom he alleged to be one short in stature, and wearing a fur cap. Pedro Castello, by birth an Italian, by trade a jeweller, who had resided in the town a few years, was of this description. He was not very tall, neither very short; but the fur cap he wore made up all deficiencies in stature. Smith swore to his identity, and, at his instigation, he was arrested, and with great coolness and self-possession passed through a short examination, which resulted in his being placed in custody to await his trial at the next session of a higher court. The only evidence against him was that of Smith and his son; that of the former was in substance what has already been stated, and that of the latter only served to support and partially confirm the evidence of the former. A host of townsmen appeared to attest to the good character of the accused; and, with such evidence for and against, he was committed.

Never was man led to prison who behaved with a greater degree of composure. Conscious of his innocence, he acted not the part of a guilty man, but, relying upon justice for an impartial trial, he walked with a firm step, and unflinchingly entered a felon's cell.

In two months his trial was to commence, and that short period soon elapsed. The morning of the trial came; all was excitement, as we have before said. A trial for murder! Such an event forms an era in the history of a town, from which many date. That one so long esteemed as an excellent neighbor, and of whose untarnished character there could be no doubt, should be suddenly arrested, charged with the committal of a crime at the thought of which human nature revolts, was a fact the belief of which was hardly credible. He himself remained not unmoved by the vast concourse of spectators; he thought he could read in the pitying glance of each an acquittal. An acquittal at the bar of public opinion always has and always will be esteemed of more value than one handed in by a jury of twelve; yet by that jury of twelve men he was to be tried,-he must look to them for his release, if he was to obtain it. Their decision would condemn him to an ignoble death, or bid him go forth once more a free man. He had obtained the best of counsel, by whose advice he selected, from twenty-five jurors, twelve, whose verdict was to seal his fate.

The trial commenced. A deep silence prevailed, broken only by the voice of the government officer, who briefly stated an outline of the facts, to wit: "That murder and robbery had been committed; that a young man was seen hastily leaving the spot upon which the crime was committed; that the appearance of the defendant was precisely that of the person thus seen; said he should not enter into an examination of the previous character of the prisoner, giving as a reason that a man may live long as a person of unquestionable character, and after all yield to some strong temptation and fall from the standard of excellence he had hitherto attained; he should present all the facts that had come to his knowledge, tending to substantiate the charge, and would leave it to the prisoner and his counsel to undermine the evidence he presented, and to prove the accused innocent, if possible; all that he should do would be to attempt to prove him guilty; if he failed to do so a verdict must be rendered accordingly." Having said this, he called upon his witnesses. Those who first discovered the outrage were called and testified to what they saw. John Smith was next called, and gave in as evidence what has before been stated; at the close of a strict cross-examination he returned to his seat. His son Levi was next called, and stated that his father was out the night he himself stated he was; he went out about half-past six or seven; did not say where he was going, or how long he should be out; he came home about eleven.

Prisoner's counsel here inquired whether it was usual, upon his father's going out, to state where he was going or when he should return. He answered in the affirmative. This was all the knowledge Levi Smith had of the affair, and with this the evidence for the government closed.

The counsel for the defendant stated, in the opening, that all he should attempt to prove would be the bad character of the principal witness, John Smith, and the unexceptionable character of the prisoner. He would prove that the reputation of Smith for truth and veracity was bad, and that therefore no reliance could be placed upon his statements. He should present the facts as they were, and leave it to them to say whether his client was innocent or guilty.

A person by the name of Renza was first called, who stated that for about two years he had resided in the house with the prisoner; that he esteemed him as a friend; that the prisoner had treated him as a brother,-had never seen anything amiss in his conduct,-at night he came directly home from his place of business, was generally in at nine, seldom out later than ten,-remembered the night in question,-thought he was in about ten, but was not certain on that point,-had been acquainted with John Smith for a number of years,-had not said much to him during that time,-had often seen him walking about the streets,-had known him to be quarrelsome and avaricious, easily provoked, and rather lacking in good principle. After a few cross-questions the witness took his seat.

Seven others were called, whose testimony was similar to the above, placing the evidence of the principal government witness in rather a disagreeable light. The evidence being in on both sides, the prisoner's counsel stood forth to vindicate the innocence of Castello. For three hours he faithfully advocated the cause, dwelt long upon the reputation of Smith, and asked whether a man should be convicted upon such rotten evidence. He brought to light the character of Smith, and that of Castello; placed them in contrast, and bade them judge for themselves. He wished to inquire why Smith, when he heard the terrible scream, when he saw a person running from the place whence the sound proceeded, why, when he heard and beheld all this, he did not make an alarm; why did Smith keep it a secret, and not till nine days had elapsed make this known? "Perhaps he would reply," argued the counsel, "that he did not wish to suspect any person, fearing the person suspected might be the wrong one; if so, why did he not inform of the person he saw running? If he was not the doer of the deed, perhaps he might relate something that would lead to the detection of him who was. Beside, if he had doubts whether it was right to inform then, why does he do so now with so much eagerness? It would be natural for one, after hearing such fearful noises,-after seeing what he testifies to having seen,-to have related it to some one; but no-Smith keeps all this important information treasured up, and not till two weeks had nearly passed does he disclose it. But, gentlemen, I have my doubts as to the truth of John's evidence. It is my firm belief that he never saw a person running from that house; he might have heard the noise-I will not dispute that. I believe his story has been cut and dried for the occasion, and surely nine days and nights have afforded him ample time to do so. The brains of an ox could concoct such ideas in nine days. Now comes the inquiry, why should he invent such a story? Of what benefit can it be to him to appear in a crowded courtroom? Gentlemen, I confess myself unable to give you his reasons; to him and to his God they are only known. The veil which, in my opinion, now shrouds this affair, will some day be withdrawn, and we shall know the truth, even as it is."

The defence here closed. The officer for the prosecution now arose, and with equal faithfulness and ability argued his side of the question. He thought the reasons why Smith had not before informed were full and explicit; and, as to the testimony of the eight as to the past good character of the prisoner, he saw no reason why a man should be always good because for two or more years he had been so. A great temptation was presented; he was young-perhaps at the moment regardless of the result, the penalty of the crime; he did not resist, but yielded; and as to the argument of the learned counsel, that Mr. S. did not see what he testifies to have seen, it is useless to refute such an unfounded allegation. Can you suppose Smith to be benefited by this prosecution further than to see justice have its dues? Settle it then in your minds that Mr. Smith did actually see all he says he did. We come next to the description given by Smith of the man seen. He said he was short in stature, and wearing a fur cap. Look at the prisoner,-is he not short?-and the testimony of two of the previous witnesses distinctly affirm that for the past six weeks he has worn a fur cap. What more evidence do you want to prove his guilt?

The prosecuting officer here closed. We have given but a faint outline of his remarks; they were forcible and to the point.

It was near the dusk of the second day's trial that the judge arose to charge the jury. He commented rather severely upon the attempt to impeach the character of Smith. His address was not lengthy; and in about thirty minutes the jury retired, while a crowded audience anxiously waited their return. It was not till the rays of the morning sun began to be seen that it was rumored that they had arrived at a decision and would soon enter. All was silent as the tomb. The prisoner, although aware that his life was at stake, sat in great composure, frequently holding converse with his friends who gathered around. How anxiously all eyes were turned towards the door by which they were to enter, wishing, yet dreading, to hear the final secret! The interest of all watched their movements and seemed to read acquittal upon each juror's face. The prisoner arose, the foreman and he looking each other in the face. The clerk put the question, "Guilty, or not guilty?" The ticking of the clock was distinctly heard. "Guilty!" responded the foreman. A verdict so unexpected by all could not be received in silence, and, as with one voice, the multitude shouted "False! false! FALSE!" With great difficulty were they silenced and restrained from rescuing the prisoner, who, though greatly disappointed, heard the verdict without much agitation. Innocent, he was convinced that justice would finally triumph, though injustice for a moment might seem to have the ascendency.

One week had passed. Sentence had been pronounced upon the young Italian, and, notwithstanding the strenuous efforts his friends made for his pardon, he was committed to prison to await the arrival of that day when innocence should suffer in the place of guilt, and he should by the rough hands of the law be unjustly dragged to the gallows, and meet his death at so wretched a place; yet far better was it for him, and of this was he aware, to be led to that place free, from the blood of all men, than to proceed there a guilty criminal, his hands dyed in the warm blood of a fellow-creature, pointed out as a murderer, and looked upon but with an eye of condemnation. He was certain that in the breasts of hundreds a spark, yea, a burning flame, of pity shone for him,-that he met not his death uncared for,-that many a tear would flow in pity for him, and that he would wend his way to the scaffold comforted by the consciousness of his innocence, and consoled by many dear friends.

The day had arrived for the execution, and crowds of people flocked to the spot to gratify their love of sight-seeing-to allay their curiosity-even though that sight were nothing less than the death of a fellow-being. Crowds had assembled. A murder had been committed, and now another was to follow. To be sure it was to be executed "according to law," but that law was inspired with the spirit of revenge. Its motto was "blood for blood." It forgot the precepts of Christ, "forgive your enemies;" and that that which is a wrong when committed by one in secret, is no less a wrong when committed by many, or by their sanction, in public. The condemned stood upon the death-plank, yet he hoped justice would be done. "Hope!" what a cheering word! 't will nerve man for every trial. Yes, Castello hoped, and relied upon that kind arm that had hitherto supported him, and had enabled him to bear up under an accumulated mass of affliction. He had a full consciousness of innocence, and to the oft-repeated inquiry as to his state of mind he replied, "I am innocent, and that truth is to me better than gold."

It lacks but five minutes of the appointed time-now but three-but two. But yonder the crowd seem excited. What is the cause of the sudden movement? But a few moments since and all were silently gazing at the centre of attraction, the scaffold. Lo, a messenger, breathless with haste, shouting "INNOCENT! INNOCENT! INNOCENT!" and a passage is made for him to approach, whilst thousands inquire the news. He answers not, save by that shrill shout, "INNOCENT!" and pressing forward touches the gallows just as Castello is about to be launched forth. The stranger ascends the steps and begs that the execution may be deferred, at least until he can relate some recent disclosures. His wish is granted, and he speaks nearly as follows:

"The testimony of the principal witness was doubted. Last night I remained at the house of Smith. Owing to the great excitement I did not retire to rest, and sat in a room adjoining that in which Smith lodged. About midnight I heard a voice in that room. I went to the door, and, fearing he was sick and desired aid, I entered. He was asleep, and did not awake upon my entering, but continued talking. I thought it strange, and thinking I might be amused, and having nothing else to do, I sat and listened. He spoke in somewhat this manner, and you may judge of my surprise while I listened:

"'I'm rich; too bad Pedro should die; but I'm rich; no matter, I'm rich. Kings kill their millions for a little money. I only kill one man; in six months 't will be forgotten; then I'll go to the bank of earth back of the red mill and get the gold; I placed it there safe, and safe it is. Ha, ha! I made that story in nine days-so I did, and might have made it in less; let him die. But supposing I should be detected; then it may be that I shall find that Pedro is right when he says there is something better than gold. But I am in no danger. The secret is in my own heart, locked up, and no one has the key but myself; so cheer thee, my soul, I'm safe!-and yet I don't feel right. I shall feel, when Pedro dies; that I kill him; but why should I care? I who have killed one, may kill another!'

"After waiting some time, and hearing no more, I hastened to the spot he had alluded to, for the purpose of satisfying myself whether what he had ramblingly spoken of was truth or fancy. After searching the hill for over an hour, I found a stone, or rather stumbled against it; I threw it aside, so that others might not stumble over it as I had, when to my astonishment I found it to be a large flat one, beneath which I found a collection of bags and boxes, which upon opening I found filled with gold and silver coin, and in each box a small paper,-one of which I hold in my hand; all are alike, and written upon each are these words:

"'This gold and silver is the property of Pedan, who enjoyed it but little himself; he leaves it to posterity, and hopes that they may find more pleasure and more satisfaction in its use than he ever did.'

"Not content with this, I pushed my researches still further, and, having taken out all the bags and boxes, I found this knife, all bloody as you see it, and this hatchet in nearly the same condition. Now I ask if it is not the course of justice to delay the execution of this young man until more examinations can be made?"

The executioner obeyed the mandate of the sheriff, and stayed his avenging hand.

"Better than gold!" shouted the prisoner, and sank helpless upon the platform.

That day John Smith was arrested, and, being bluntly charged with the murder, confessed all. Castello was immediately released, and went forth a free man.

In four weeks Smith was no more of earth; he had paid the penalty of his crimes, and died not only a murderer but a perjured man.

The next Sabbath the pastor of the church discoursed upon the subject, and an indescribable thrill pervaded the hearts of some of the people as they repeated the words, "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."

GONE AWAY.

HERE, where now are mighty cities,

Once the Indians' wigwam stood;

Once their council-fires illumined,

Far and near, the tangled wood.

Here, on many a grass-grown border,

Then they met, a happy throng;

Rock and hill and valley sounded

With the music of their song.

Now they are not,-they have vanished,

And a voice doth seem to say,

Unto him who waits and listens,

"Gone away,-gone away."

Yonder in those valleys gathered

Many a sage in days gone by;

Thence the wigwam's smoke ascended,

Slowly, peacefully, on high.

Indian mothers thus their children

Taught around the birchen fire,-

"Look ye up to the great Spirit!

To his hunting-grounds aspire."

Now those fires are all extinguished;

Fire and wigwam, where are they?

Hear ye not those voices whispering,

"Gone away,-gone away!"

Here the Indian girl her tresses

Braided with a maiden's pride;

Here the lover wooed and won her,

On Tri-mountain's grassy side.

Here they roamed from rock to river,

Mountain peak and hidden cave;

Here the light canoe they paddled

O'er the undulating wave.

All have vanished-lovers, maidens,

Meet not on these hills to-day,

But unnumbered voices whisper,

"Gone away,-gone away!"

"Gone away!" Yes, where the waters

Of the Mississippi roll,

And Niagara's ceaseless thunders

With their might subdue the soul,

Now the noble Indian standeth

Gazing at the eagle's flight,

Conscious that the great good Spirit

Will accomplish all things right.

Though like forest-leaves they're passing,

They who once held boundless sway,

And of them 't will soon be written,

"Gone away,-gone away!"

As they stand upon the mountain,

And behold the white man press

Onward, onward, never ceasing,

Mighty in his earnestness;

As they view his temples rising,

And his white sails dot the seas,

And his myriad thousands gathering,

Hewing down the forest trees;

Thus they muse: "Let them press onward,

Not far distant is the day

When of them a voice shall whisper,

'Gone away,-gone away!'"

LINES TO MY WIFE.

THOU art ever standing near me,

In wakeful hours and dreams;

Like an angel-one, attendant

On life and, all its themes;

And though I wander from thee,

In lands afar away,

I dream of thee at night, and wake

To think of thee by day.

In the morning, when the twilight,

Like a spirit kind and true,

Comes with its gentle influence,

It whispereth of you.

For I know that thou art present,

With love that seems to be

A band to bind me willingly

To heaven and to thee.

At noon-day, when the tumult and

The din of life is heard,

When in life's battle each heart is

With various passions stirred,

I turn me from the blazonry,

The fickleness of life,

And think of thee in earnest thought,

My dearest one-my wife!

When the daylight hath departed,

And shadows of the night

Bring forth the stars, as beacons fair

For angels in their flight,

I think of thee as ever mine,

Of thee as ever best,

And turn my heart unto thine own,

To seek its wonted rest.

Thus ever thou art round my path,

And doubly dear thou art

When, with my lips pressed to thine own,

I feel thy beating heart.

And through the many joys and griefs,

The lights and shades of life,

It will be joy to call thee by

The holy name of "wife!"

I love thee for thy gentleness,

I love thee for thy truth;

I love thee for thy joyousness,

Thy buoyancy of youth

I love thee for thy soul that soars

Above earth's sordid pelf;

And last, not least, above these all,

I love thee for thyself.

Now come to me, my dearest,

Place thy hand in mine own;

Look in mine eyes, and see how deep

My love for thee hath grown;

And I will press thee to my heart,

Will call thee "my dear wife,"

And own that thou art all my joy

And happiness of life.

CHEER UP.

CHEER up, cheer up, my own fair one!

Let gladness take the place of sorrow;

Clouds shall not longer hide the sun,-

There is, there is a brighter morrow!

'T is coming fast. I see its dawn.

See! look you, how it gilds the mountain!

We soon shall mark its happy morn,

Sending its light o'er stream and fountain.

My bird sings with a clearer note;

He seems to know our hopes are brighter,

And almost tires his little throat

To let us know his heart beats lighter.

I wonder if he knows how dark

The clouds were when they gathered o'er us!

No matter,-gayly as a lark

He sings that bright paths are before us.

So cheer thee up, my brightest, best!

For clear's the sky, and fair's the weather.

Since hand in hand we've past the test,

Hence heart in heart we'll love together.

TRUST THOU IN GOD.

TRUST thou in God! he'll guide thee

When arms of flesh shall fail;

With every good provide thee,

And make his grace prevail.

Where danger most is found,

There he his power discloseth;

And 'neath his arm,

Free from all harm,

The trusting soul reposeth.

Trust thou in God, though sorrow

Thine earthly hopes destroy;

To him belongs the morrow,

And he will send thee joy.

When sorrows gather near,

Then he'll delight to bless thee!

When all is joy,

Without alloy,

Thine earthly friends caress thee.

Trust thou in God! he reigneth

The Lord of lords on high;

His justice he maintaineth

In his unclouded sky.

To triumph Wrong may seem,

The day, yet justice winneth,

And from the earth

Shall songs of mirth

Rise, when its sway beginneth.

When friends grow faint and weary,

When thorns are on thy way,

When life to thee is dreary,

When clouded is thy day,

Then put thy trust in God,

Hope on, and hoping ever;

Give him thy heart,

Nor seek to part

The love which none can sever!

THE MINISTRATION OF SORROW.

THERE'S sorrow in thy heart to-day,

There's sadness on thy brow;

For she, the loved, hath passed away,

And thou art mourning now.

The eye that once did sparkle bright,

The hand that pressed thine own,

No more shall gladden on thy sight,-

Thy cherished one hath flown.

And thou didst love her well, 't is true;

Now thou canst love her more,

Since she hath left this world, and you,

On angel wings to soar

Above the world, its ceaseless strife,

Its turmoil and its care,

To enter on eternal life,

And reign in glory there.

O, let this thought now cheer thy soul,

And bid thy tears depart;

A few more days their course shall roll,

Thou 'lt meet, no more to part.

No more upon thine ear shall fall,

The saddening word "farewell"

No more a parting hour, but all

In perfect union dwell.

This world is not the home of man;

Death palsies with its gloom,

Marks out his life-course but a span,

And points him to the tomb;

But, thanks to Heaven, 't is but the gate

By which we enter bliss;

Since such a life our spirits wait,

O, cheer thy soul in this,-

And let the sorrow that doth press

Thy spirit down to-day

So minister that it may bless

Thee on thy pilgrim way;

And as thy friends shall, one by one,

Leave earth above to dwell,

Say thou to God, "Thy will be done,

Thou doest all things well."

GIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS.

FROM the earliest ages of society some means have been resorted to whereby to give publicity to business which would otherwise remain in comparative privacy. The earliest of modes adopted was the crying of names in the streets; and before the invention of printing men were employed to traverse the most frequented thoroughfares, to stand in the market-places and other spots of resort, and, with loud voices, proclaim their message to the people. This mode is not altogether out of use at the present time; yet it is not generally considered a desirable one, inasmuch as it does not accomplish its purpose so readily or completely as any one of the numerous other methods resorted to.

Since the invention of printing, handbills, posters, and newspapers, have been the principal channels of communication between the inside of the dealer's shop and the eye of the purchaser, and from that to the inside of his purse. So advantageous have these modes been found, that it is a rare thing to find a single individual who does not, either on a large or small scale, rein the press into the path he travels, and make its labor conducive to the profits of his own.

England and France have taken the lead in this mode of giving publicity to business; but the United States, with its unwillingness to be beat in any way, on any terms, has made such rapid strides of late in this enterprise, that the English lion will be left in the rear, and the French eagle far in the background.

In London many curious devices have been used or proposed. Of these was that of a man who wished to prepare a sort of bomb-shell, to be filled with cards or bills, which, on reaching a certain elevation above the city, would explode, and thus scatter these carrier doves of information in all conceivable directions. In that city, butchers, bakers, and fishmongers, receive quite an income from persons who wish their cards attached to the various commodities in which they deal. Thus, a person receiving a fish, a loaf, or a piece of meat, finds the advertisement of a dealer in silks and satins attached to the tail of the fish; that of an auction sale of domestic flannels wrapped around the loaf; and perhaps flattering notices of a compound for the extermination of rats around the meat.

In the evening, transparencies are carried about the streets, suspended across the public ways or hung upon the walls.

In this country, no person has taken the lead of a famous doctor in the way of advertising. Nearly every paper in the Union was one-fourth filled with ably-written articles in praise of his compound. In fact, he published papers of his own, the articles in which were characterized by the "one idea principle," and that one idea was contained in a bottle of Dr.-'s save all and cure all, "none true but the genuine," "warranted not to burst the bottles or become sour." In addition to these, he issued an almanac-millions of them-bearing glad tidings to the sick and credulous, and sad tidings to the "regulars" in the medical fraternity. These almanacs were distributed everywhere. They came down on the American people like rain-drops. The result was, as we all know, the doctor flourished in a fortune equal to his fame, and disposed of his interest in the business, a few years since, for one hundred thousand dollars.

The amount of capital invested in advertising is very great, some firms expending thousands of dollars monthly in this mode of making known their business. It has been truly said that a card in a newspaper, that costs but a few dollars, is of far more value than costly signs over one's door. The former thousands behold, and are directed to your place of business; the latter very few notice who do not know the fact it makes known before they see it.

Attracted by the good fortune of those who have advertised, nearly every one has adopted the means that led to it; and the advertising system has become universal.

We have been seated in a car, waiting impatiently for the sound of the "last bell," when a person in a brown linen coat entered with an armful of books, and gave to each passenger a copy, without a hint about pay. Thanking him for the gift, and astonished at his generosity, we proceeded to open it, when "Wonderful cures," "Consumption," "Scrofula," "Indigestion," and "Fits," greeted our eyes on every page. Illustrated, too! Here was represented a man apparently dying, and near by a figure that would appear to be a woman were it not for two monstrous wings on its back, throwing obstacles in the way of death in the shape of a two-quart bottle of sarsaparilla syrup. Presumptive man in a brown linen coat, to suppose that we, just on the eve of a pleasure excursion, are troubled with such complaints, and stand in need of such a remedy!

You buy a newspaper, go home, seat yourself, and, in the anticipation of at glorious intellectual feast, open its damp pages, when, lo and behold! a huge show-bill falls from its embrace, and you are informed of the consoling truth that you can have all your teeth drawn for a trifle, and a now set inserted at a low price, by a distinguished dentist from London. The bill is indignantly thrown aside, and you commence reading an article under the caption of "An interesting incident," which, when half finished, you find to refer to a young lady whose complexion was made beautiful by the free use of "Chaulks Poudres," a box of which can be obtained at 96 Azure-street, for 25 cts. After reading another column, headed "An act of mercy," you find at its close a most pathetic appeal to your tender sensibilities in an affectionate request for you to call on Dr. Digg and have your corns extracted without pain. Despairing of finding the "intellectual treat," you lay the paper aside, and resolve upon taking a walk.

Before you are monstrous show-bills, emblazoned with large letters and innumerable exclamation-points. Above you, flaunting flags with flaming notices. Beneath you, marble slabs inscribed with the names of traders and their goods. Around you, boys with their arms full of printed notices, and men encased with boards on which are mammoth posters. Sick of seeing these, you close your eyes; but you don't escape so easily;-a dinner-bell is rung in your ears, and a voice, if not like mighty thunder, at least like an embryo earthquake, proclaims an auction sale, a child lost, or news for the afflicted.

And thus it is, the world is one great Babel. All is business, business, and we ask for "some vast wilderness" in which to lie down and get cool, and keep quiet.

In Paris, the people long since adopted a plan which has not yet come in vogue among us. A long story is written; in the course of this story, a dozen or more establishments receive the author's laudations, which are so ingeniously interwoven that the reader is scarcely aware of the design. For instance, Marnetta is going to an evening party. In the morning she goes out, and is met by a sprig of gentility, a young man of fashion, who cannot allow her to omit entering the unrivalled store of Messrs. Veuns, where the most beautiful silks, etc., are to be seen and purchased. Leaving this, she next encounters a young lady acquaintance of prudent and economical habits, by whom, "our heroine" is led into a store where beauty and elegance are combined with durability and a low price. She wishes perfumery; so she hastens to Viot & Sons; for none make so good as they, and the fragrance of their store has been wafted on the winds of all nations.

Thus is the story led on from one step to another, with its interest not in the least abated, to the end. This embraces "puffery," as it is called. And, while on this subject, we may as well bring up the following specimen of this species of advertising. It was written by Peter Seguin, on the occasion of the first appearance in Dublin of the celebrated Mrs. Siddons. It caused much merriment at the time among some, while in others, who could not relish a joke, it excited anger.

"The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could hold, with thousands of admiring spectators that went away without a sight. This extraordinary phenomenon of tragic excellence! this star of Melpomene! this comet of the stage! this sun of the firmament of the Muses! this moon of blank verse! this queen arch-princess of tears! this Donnellan of the poisoned bowl! this empress of the pistol and dagger! this child of Shakspeare! this world of weeping clouds! this Juno of commanding aspects! this Terpsichore of the curtains and scenes! this Proserpine of fire and earthquake! this Katterfelto of wonders! exceeded expectation, went beyond belief, and soared above all the natural powers of description! She was nature itself! she was the most exquisite work of art! She was the very daisy, primrose, tuberose, sweet-brier, furze-blossom, gilliflower, wallflower, cauliflower, aurica and rosemary! In short, she was the bouquet of Parnassus! Where expectation was raised so high, it was thought she would be injured by her appearance; but it was the audience who were injured; several fainted before the curtain drew up! but when she came to the scene of parting with her wedding-ring, all! what a sight was there! The fiddlers in the orchestra, 'albeit unused to the melting mood!' blubbered like hungry children crying for their bread and butter; and when the bell rang for music between the acts, the tears ran from the bassoon player's eyes in such plentiful showers, that they choked the finger-stops, and, making a spout of the instrument, poured in such torrents on the first fiddler's book, that, not seeing the overture was in two sharps, the leader of the band actually played in one flat. But the sobs and sighs of the groaning audience, and the noise of corks drawn from the smelling-bottles, prevented the mistakes between the flats and sharps being discovered. One hundred and nine ladies fainted! forty-six went into fits! and ninety-five had strong hysterics! The world will hardly credit the truth, when they are told that fourteen children, five women, one hundred tailors, and six common-council men, were actually drowned in the inundation of tears that flowed from the galleries, the slips and the boxes, to increase the briny pond in the pit; the water was three feet deep, and the people that were obliged to stand upon the benches were in that position up to their ancles in tears."

There is nothing in the present style of criticism that can exceed the above. The author actually reached the climax, and all attempts to overtop him would be useless.

Of advertisements there have been many worthy of preservation: some on account of the ingenuity displayed in their composition; some in their wit; some for their domesticativeness,-matrimonial offers, for example,-and others for the conceitedness exposed in them, the ignorance of the writers, or the whimsicality of the matter advertised. In 1804 there was advertised in an English paper, as for sale, "The walk of a deceased blind beggar (in a charitable neighborhood), with his dog and staff."

In the St. James Chronicle of 1772 was the following:

"Wanted, fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds, by a person not worth a groat; who, having neither houses, lands, annuities, or public funds, can offer no other security than that of a simple bond, bearing simple interest, and engaging, the repayment of the sum borrowed in five, six, or seven years, as may be, agreed on by the parties," &c.

We do not know whether the advertiser obtained his pounds or not, but such an advertisement, now-a-days, would draw forth a laugh much sooner than the money; or, if "pounds" came, they would, most probably, fall upon the recipient's shoulders, instead of into his pocket.

The Chinese are not behind the age in this business. The following is an instance in proof:

"ACHEU TEA CHINCOEU, Sculptor, respectfully acquaints masters of ships trading from Canton to India that they may be furnished with figure-heads, any size, according to order, at one-fourth of the price charged in Europe. He also recommends, for private venture, the following idols, brass, gold and silver: The hawk of Vishnoo, which has reliefs of his incarnation in a fish, boar, lion, and bull, as worshipped by the pious followers of Zoroaster; two silver marmosets, with gold ear-rings; an aprimanes for Persian worship; a ram, an alligator, a crab, a laughing hyena, with a variety of household idols, on a small scale, calculated for family worship. Eighteen months credit will be given, or a discount of fifteen per cent. for prompt payment, on the sum affixed to each article. Direct, Canton-street, Canton, under the marble Rhinoceros and gilt Hydra."

We subjoin another, in which self-exaltation is pretty well carried out.

"At the shop Tae-shing (prosperous in the extreme)-very good ink; fine! fine! Ancient shop, great-grandfather, grandfather, father and self, make this ink; fine and hard, very hard; picked with care, selected with attention. I sell very good ink; prime cost is very great. This ink is heavy; so is gold. The eye of the dragon glitters and dazzles; so does this ink. No one makes like it. Others who make ink make it for the sake of accumulating base coin, cheat, while I make it only for a name, Plenty of A-kwan-tsaes (gentlemen) know my ink-my family never cheated-they have always borne a good name. I make ink for the 'Son of Heaven,' and all the mandarins in the empire. As the roar of the tiger extends to every place, so does, the fame' of the 'dragon's jewel' (the ink). Come, all A-kwan- tsaes, come to my shop and see the sign Tae-shing at the side of the door. It is Seou-shwuy-street (Small Water-street), outside the south gate."

THE MISSION OF KINDNESS.

Go to the sick man's chamber; low and soft

Falls on the listening ear a sweet-toned voice;

A hand as gentle as the summer breeze,

Ever inclined to offices of good,

Smooths o'er the sick man's pillow, and then turns

To trim the midnight lamp, moisten the lips,

And, passing over, soothe the fevered brow.

Thus charity finds place in woman's heart;

And woman kind, and beautiful, and good,

Doth thus administer to every want,

Nor wearies in her task, but labors on,

And finds her joy in that which she imparts.

Go to the prisoner's cell; to-morrow's light

Shall be the last on earth he e'er shall see.

He mutters hate 'gainst all, and threatens ill

To every semblance of the human form.

Deep in his soul remorse, despair and hate,

Dwell unillumined by one ray of light,

And sway his spirit as the waves are swayed

By wind and storm. He may have cause to hold

His fellow-men as foes; for, at the first

Of his departure from an upright course,

They scorned and shunned and cursed him.

They sinnd thus, and he, in spite for them,

Kept on his sullen way from wrong to wrong.

Which is the greatest sinner? He shall say

Who of the hearts of men alone is judge.

Now, in his cell condemned, he waits the hour,

The last sad hour of mortal life to him.

His oaths and blasphemies he sudden stays!

He thinks he hears upon his prison door

A gentle tap. O, to his hardened heart

That gentle sound a sweet remembrance brings

Of better days-two-score of years gone by,

Days when his mother, rapping softly thus,

Called him to morning prayer. Again 't is heard.

Is it a dream? Asleep! He cannot sleep

With chains around and shameful death before him!

Is it the false allurement of some foe

Who would with such enticement draw him forth

To meet destruction ere the appointed time?

Softened and calmed, each angry passion lulled,

By a soft voice, "Come in," he trembling calls.

Slow on its hinges turns the ponderous door,

And "Friend," the word that falls from stranger lips.

As dew on flowers, as rain on parchd ground,

So came the word unto the prisoner's ear.

He speaks not-moves not. O, his heart is full,

Too full for utterance; and, as floods of tears

Flow from his eyes so all unused to weep,

He bows down low, e'en at the stranger's feet.

He had not known what 't was to have a friend.

The word came to him like a voice from heaven,

A voice of love to one who'd heard but hate.

"Friend!" Mysterious word to him who'd known no friend.

O, what a power that simple word hath o'er him!

As now he holds the stranger's hand in his,

And bows his head upon it, he doth seem

Gentle and kind, and docile as a child.

Repentance comes with kindness, goodness rears

Its cross on Calvary's height, inspiring hope

Which triumphs over evil and its guilt.

O, how much changed! and all by simple words

Spoken in love and kindness from the heart.

O, love and kindness! matchless power have ye

To mould the human heart; where'er ye dwell

There is no sorrow, but a living joy.

There is no man whom God hath placed on earth

That hath not some humanity within,

And is not moved with kindness joined with love.

The wildest savage, from whose firelit eye

Flashes the lightning passions of his soul,

Who stands, and feeling that he hath been wronged,

That he hath trusted and been basely used,

And that to him revenge were doubly sweet,

Dares all the world to combat and to death,-

Even he hath dwelling in his inmost heart

A chord that quick will vibrate to kind words.

Go unto such with kindness, not with wrath;

Let your eye look love, and 't will disarm him

Of all the evil passions with which he

Hath mailed his soul in terrible array.

Think not to tame the wild by brutal force.

As well attempt to stay devouring flames

By heaping fagots on the blazing pile.

Go, do man good, and the deep-hidden spark

Of true divinity concealed within

Will brighten up, and thou shalt see its glow,

And feel its cheering warmth. O, we lose much

By calling passion's aid to vanquish wrong.

We should stand within love's holy temple,

And with persuasive kindness call men in,

Rather than, leaving it, use other means,

Unblest of God, and therefore weak and vain,

To force them on before us into bliss.

There is a luxury in doing good

Which none but by experience e'er can know.

He's blest who doeth good. Sleep comes to him

On wings of sweetest peace; and angels meet

In joyous convoys ever round his couch;

They watch and guard, protect and pray for him.

All mothers bend the knee, and children too

Clasp their fair hands and raise their undimmed eyes,

As if to pierce the shadowy veil that hangs

Between themselves and God-then pray that he

Will bless with Heaven's best gifts the friend of man.

A PLEA FOR THE FALLEN.

PITY her, pity her! Once she was fair,

Once breathed she sweetly the innocent's prayer;

Parents stood by in pride o'er their daughter;

Sin had not tempted, Vice had not caught her;

Hoping and trusting, believing all true,

Nothing but happiness rose to her view.

She, as were spoken words lovers might tell,

Listened, confided, consented, and fell!

Now she's forsaken; nursing in sorrow,

Hate for the night, despair for the morrow!

She'd have the world think she's happy and gay,-

A butterfly, roving wherever it may;

Sipping delight from each rose-bud and flower,

The charmed and the charmer of every hour.

She will not betray to the world all her grief;

She knows it is false, and will give no relief.

She knows that its friendship is heartless and cold;

That it loves but for gain, and pities for gold;

That when in their woe the fallen do cry,

It turns, it forsakes, and it leaves them to die!

But after the hour of the world's bright show,

When hence from her presence flatterers go;

When none are near to praise or caress her,

No one stands by with fondness to bless her;

Alone with her thoughts, in moments like this,

She thinks of her days of innocent bliss,

And she weeps!-yes, she weeps penitent tears

O'er the shame of a life and the sorrow of years:

She turns for a friend; yet, alas! none is there;

She sinks, once again, in the deepest despair!

Blame her not! O blame not, ye fathers who hold

Daughters you value more dearly than gold!

But pity, O, pity her! take by the hand

One who, though fallen, yet nobly may stand.

Turn not away from her plea and her cries;

Pity and help, and the fallen may rise!

Crush not to earth the reed that is broken,

Bind up her wounds-let soft words be spoken;

Though she be low, though worldlings reject her,

Let not Humanity ever neglect her.

JOY BEYOND.

BEYOND the dark, deep grave, whose lowly portal

Must yet be passed by every living mortal,

There gleams a light;

'T is not of earth. It wavers not; it gloweth

With a clear radiance which no changing knoweth,

Constant and bright.

We love to gaze at it; we love to cherish

The cheering thought, that, when this earth shall perish,

And naught remain

Of all these temples,-things we now inherit,

Each unimprisoned, no more fettered spirit

Shall life retain.

And ever, through eternity unending,

It shall unto that changeless light be tending,

Till perfect day

Shall be its great reward; and all of mystery

That hath made up its earthly life, its history,

Be passed away!

O, joyous hour! O, day most good and glorious!

When from the earth the ransomed rise victorious,

Its conflict o'er;

When joy henceforth each grateful soul engages,

Joy unalloyed through never-ending ages,

Joy evermore!

THE SUMMER DAYS ARE COMING.

THE summer days are coming,

The glorious summer hours,

When Nature decks her gorgeous robe

With sunbeams and with flowers;

And gathers all her choristers

In plumage bright and gay,

Till every vale is echoing with

Their joyous roundelay.

No more shall frosty winter

Hold in its cold embrace

The water; but the river

Shall join again the race;

And down the mountain's valley,

And o'er its rocky side,

The glistening streams shall rush and leap

In all their bounding pride.

There's pleasure in the winter,

When o'er the frozen snow

With faithful friend and noble steed

Right merrily we go!

But give to me the summer,

The pleasant summer days,

When blooming flowers and sparkling streams

Enliven all our ways.

THE MAN WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING.

SANSECRAT is one of that class of persons who think they know everything. If anything occurs, and you seek to inform him, he will interrupt you by saying that he knows it all,-that he was on the spot when the occurrence happened, or that he had met a man who was an eye-witness.

Such a person, though he be the possessor of much assurance, is sadly deficient in manners; and no doubt the super-abundancy of the former is caused by the great lack of the latter.

Such men as he will thrive; there is no mistake about it. This has been called an age of invention and of humbug. Nothing is so popular, or so much sought after, as that which cannot be explained, and around which a mysterious shroud is closely woven.

My friend Arcanus came sweating and puffing into my room. I had just finished my dinner, and was seated leisurely looking over a few pages of manuscript, when he entered.

"News!" said he; and before I could hand him a chair he had told me all about the last battle, and his tongue flew about with so much rapidity, that a conflagration might have been produced by such excessive friction, had not a rap at the door put a clog under the wheels of his talkative locomotive, and stayed its progress, which luckily gave me an opportunity to take his hat and request him to be seated.

The door was opened, and who but Sansecrat stood before me.

"Have you heard the news?" was the first interrogatory of my friend Arcanus, in reply to which Sansecrat said that he knew it all half an hour previous,-was at the railroad station when the express arrived, and was the first man to open the Southern papers.

In vain Arcanus told him that the information came by a private letter. He averred, point blank, that it was no such thing; that he had the papers in his pocket; and was about to exhibit them as proof of what he had said, when he suddenly recollected that he had sold them to an editor for one-and-sixpence.

Notwithstanding the proverb of "Man, know thyself," Sansecrat seems to know everything but himself. Thousands of times has it been said that man can see innumerable faults and foibles in his neighbors, but none in himself. Very true; and man can see his own character, just as he can see his own face in a mirror. His own associates mirror forth his own character; and the faults, be they great or small, that he sees in them, are but the true reflection of his own errors. Yet, blind to this, and fondly imagining that he is the very "pink of excellence," he flatters his own vain feeling with the cherished idea that, while others have faults, he has none, and so slumbers on in the sweet repose of ignorance.

Sansecrat imagines that he knows everything; that to teach him would be like "carrying coals to Newcastle," or sending ship-loads of ice to Greenland, or furnaces to the coast of Africa; yet he is as ignorant as the greatest dunce, who, parrot-like, repeats that he has heard, without having the least understanding of what he says.

Strange as it may seem, it is nevertheless true that Sansecrat will prosper in the world; for, though destitute of those qualifications which render their possessor worthy of success, he has an abundance of brazen-facedness, with which he will work himself into the good opinion of not a few, who look more closely upon exterior appearance than they do upon inward worth, and judge their fellowmen more by the good quality of their cloth than by the good quality of their hearts, and set more value on a shining hat and an unpatched boot than they do on a brilliant intellect and a noble soul.

PRIDE AND POVERTY.

I CANNOT brook the proud. I cannot love

The selfish man; he seems to have no heart;

And why he lives and moves upon this earth

Which God has made so fair, I cannot tell.

He has no soul but that within his purse,

And all his hopes are centred on its fate;

That lost, and all is lost.

I knew a man

Who had abundant riches. He was proud,-

Too oft the effect of riches when abused,-

His step was haughty, and his eye glanced at

The honest poor as base intruders on

The earth he trod and fondly called his own;

Unwelcome guests at Nature's banqueting.

Years passed away,-that youth became a man;

His beetled brow, his sullen countenance,

His eye that looked a fiery command,

Betrayed that his ambition was to rule.

He smiled not, save in scorn on humble men,

Whom he would have bow down and worship him.

Thus with his strength his pride did grow, until

He did become aristocrat indeed.

The humble beggar, whose loose rags scarce gave

Protection to him from the cold north wind,

He scarce would look upon, and vainly said,

As in his hand he held the ready coin,

"No mortal need be poor,-'t is his own fault

If such he be;-if he court poverty,

Let all its miseries be his to bear."

'T is many years since he the proud spake thus,

And men and things have greatly changed since then.

No more in wealth he rolls,-men's fortunes change.

I met a lonely hearse, slowly it passed

Toward the church-yard. 'T was unattended

Save by one old man, and he the sexton.

With spade beneath his arm he trudged along,

Whistling a homely tune, and stopping not.

He seemed to be in haste, for now and then

He'd urge to quicker pace his walking beast,

With the rough handle of his rusty spade.

Him I approached, and eagerly inquired

Whose body thus was borne so rudely to

Its final resting-place, the deep, dark grave.

"His name was Albro," was the prompt reply.

"Too proud to beg, we found him starved to death,

In a lone garret, which the rats and mice

Seemed greatly loth to have him occupy.

An' I, poor Billy Matterson, whom once

He deemed too poor and low to look upon,

Am come to bury him."

The sexton smiled,-

Then raised his rusty spade, cheered up his nag,

Whistled as he was wont, and jogged along.

Oft I have seen the poor man raise his hand

To wipe the eye when good men meet the grave,-

But Billy Matterson, he turned and smiled.

The truth flashed in an instant on my mind,

Though sad, yet deep, unchanging truth to me.

'T was he, thus borne, who, in his younger days,

Blest with abundance, used it not aright.

He, who blamed the poor because they were such;

Behold his end!-too proud to beg, he died.

A sad example, teaching all to shun

The rock on which he shipwrecked,-warning take,

That they too fall not as he rashly fell.

WORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEART.

WORDS, words! O give me these,

Words befitting what I feel,

That I may on every breeze

Waft to those whose riven steel

Fetters souls and shackles hands

Born to be as free as air,

Yet crushed and cramped by Slavery's bands,-

Words that have an influence there.

Words, words! give me to write

Such as touch the inner heart;

Not mere flitting forms of light,

That please the ear and then depart;

But burning words, that reach the soul,

That bring the shreds of error out,

That with resistless power do roll,

And put the hosts of Wrong to rout.

Let others tune their lyres, and sing

Illusive dreams of fancied joy;

But, my own harp,-its every string

Shall find in Truth enough employ.

It shall not breathe of Freedom here,

While millions clank the galling chain;

Or e'en one slave doth bow in fear,

Within our country's broad domain.

Go where the slave-gang trembling stands,

Herded with every stable stock,-

Woman with fetters on her hands,

And infants on the auction-block!

See, as she bends, how flow her tears!

Hark! hear her broken, trembling sighs;

Then hear the oaths, the threats, the jeers,

Of men who lash her as she cries!

O, men! who have the power to weave

In poesy's web deep, searching thought,

Be truth thy aim; henceforward leave

The lyre too much with fancy fraught!

Come up, and let the words you write

Be those which every chain would break,

And every sentence you indite

Be pledged to Truth for Freedom's sake.

OUR HOME.

OUR home shall be

A cot on the mountain side,

Where the bright waters glide,

Sparkling and free;

Terrace and window o'er

Woodbine shall graceful soar;

Roses shall round the door

Blossom for thee.

There shall be joy

With no care to molest,-

Quiet, serene and blest;

And our employ

Work each other's pleasure;

Boundless be the treasure;

Without weight or measure,

Free from alloy.

Our home shall be

Where the first ray of light

Over the mountain height,

Stream, rock and tree,

Joy to our cot shall bring,

While brake and bower shall ring

With notes the birds shall sing,

Loved one, for thee.

SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE.

SPECULATION is business in a high fever. Its termination is generally very decided, whether favorable or otherwise, and the effect of that termination upon the individual most intimately connected with it in most cases unhealthy.

It was a truth long before the wise man wrote it, that making haste to be rich is an evil; and it always will be a truth that the natural, unforced course of human events is the only sure, the only rational one.

The desire to be rich, to be pointed out as wealthy, is a very foolish one, unless it be coupled with a desire to do good. This is somewhat paradoxical; for the gratification of the last most certainly repels that of the first, inasmuch as he who distributes his gains cannot accumulate to any great extent.

Wealth is looked at from the wrong stand-point. It is too often considered the end, instead of the means to an end; and there never was a greater delusion in the human mind than that of supposing that riches confer happiness. In ninety-nine cases out of every hundred the opposite is the result. Care often bears heavily on the rich man's brow, and the insatiate spirit asks again and again for more, and will not be silenced. And this feeling will predominate in the human mind until man becomes better acquainted with his own true nature, and inclines to minister to higher and more ennobling aspirations.

In one of the most populous cities of the Union there resided, a few years since, a person in moderate circumstances, by the name of Robert Short. Bob, as he Was usually called, was a shoemaker. With a steady run of custom, together with prudence and economy combined, he was enabled to support his family in an easy and by no means unenviable style. He did not covet the favors and caresses of the world. He looked upon all,-the rich, the poor, the prince, the beggar,-alike, as his brethren. He believed that all stood upon one platform, all were bound to the same haven, and that all should be equally interested in each other's welfare. With this belief, and with rules of a similar character, guided by which he pursued his course of life, it was not to be wondered at that he could boast of many friends, and not strange that many should seek his acquaintance. There is a desire planted in the hearts of honest men to associate with those who, ambitious enough to sustain a good character, are not so puffed up with pride, or so elevated in their own estimation, as to despise the company of what are termed "the common people." It was pleasant, of a winter's evening, to enter the humble domicile of Mr. Short, and while the howling storm raged fiercely without, and the elements seemed at war, to see the contentment and peace that prevailed within. Bob, seated at his bench, might be seen busily employed, and, as the storm increased, would seem to apply himself more diligently to his task. Six or perhaps eight of his neighbors might also be seen gathered around, seated upon that article most convenient,-whether a stool or a pile of leather, it mattered not,-relating some tale of the Revolution, or listening to some romantic story from the lips of the respected Mr. Short. 'T was upon such an evening, and at such a place, that our story commences. Squire Smith, Ned Green, and a jovial sort of a fellow by the name of Sandy, were seated around the red-hot cylinder. Squire Smith was what some would term a "man of consequence,"-at least, he thought so. Be it known that this squire was by no means a daily visitor at the work-shop of our hero. He came in occasionally, and endeavored to impress upon his mind that which he had settled in his own, namely, that he, Robert Short, might be a great man.

"I tell you what," said he, with an air of importance, "I tell you what, it is against all reason, it is contrary to common sense and everything else, that you remain any longer riveted down to this old bench. It will be your ruin; 'pend upon it, it will be your ruin."

"How so?" eagerly inquired Mr. Short.

"Why," replied the squire, "it's no use for me to go into particulars. But why do you not associate with more respectable and fashionable company?"

"Is not the present company respectable?" resumed Mr. Short; "and as for the fashion, I follow my own."

Squire Smith did not reply to this inquiry, but stood shaking his head, and appeared at a loss for words with which to answer.

"Perhaps your ideas of respectability," continued the squire, "are not in accordance with mine."

"Ay, ay; true, true," interrupted Sandy, with a shrug of the shoulder.

Mr. Smith continued his remarks, appearing not to notice the interruption. "Perhaps," said he, "one may be as honest as the days are long; but, sir, he is far from being respectable, in my humble opinion, if he is not genteel,-and certainly if he is not fashionably dressed he is not. He does not think enough of himself; that's it, my dear Mr. Short, he does not think enough of himself."

"But he is honest," replied Mr. Short. "Supposing he does not dress so fashionably as you would wish, would you condemn him for the cut of his coat, or the quality of his cloth? Perhaps his means are not very extensive, and will not admit of a very expensive outlay, merely for show. It is much better, my dear sir, to be clothed in rags and out of debt, than to be attired in the most costly apparel, and that not paid for. Sir, to hold up your head and say you owe no man, is to be free, free in the truest sense of the word."

"Ah, I must be on the move," interrupted the squire, at the same time looking at his "gold lever." And off he started.

Squire Smith had said enough for that night; to have said more would have injured his plan. Mr. Green and Sandy shook hands with their friend Robert, and, it being late, they bade him "good-by," and parted. Our hero was now left alone. Snuffing the candle, that had well-nigh burnt to the socket, he placed more fuel upon the fire, and, resting his hands upon his knees and his head upon his hands, he began to think over the sayings of his friend the squire.

Robert Short saw nothing of the squire for many days after the event just described transpired. One day, as he began his work, the door was suddenly thrown open, and the long absent but not forgotten squire rushed in, shouting "Speculation! speculation!" Mr. Short threw aside his last, and listened with feelings of astonishment to the eloquent words that fell from the lips of his unexpected visitor. "Gull, the broker," continued the squire, "has just offered me a great bargain. I have come to make a proposition which is, that you and I accept his offer, and make our fortunes."

"Fortunes!" exclaimed the son of Crispin; "speculate in what?"

"In eastern land," was the reply.

Bob Short's countenance assumed a desponding appearance; he had heard of many losses caused by venturing in these speculations, and had some doubts as to his success, should he accept. Then, again, he had heard of those who had been fortunate, and he inquired the conditions of sale.

"Why," replied Mr. Smith, Esq., "old Varnum Gull has three thousand acres of good land, upon which are, as he assures me, some beautiful watering places. It is worth five dollars an acre; he offers it to me for one, and a grand chance it is; the terms are cash."

"Are you certain as to the quality of the land?" inquired Mr. Short.

"Perfectly certain," was the reply. "I would not advise you wrong for the world; but I now think it best to form a sort of co-partnership, and purchase the land. There is no doubt but that we can dispose of it at a great advantage. Will you not agree to my proposals, and accept?"

"I will," answered Mr. Short. "But how can I obtain fifteen hundred dollars? I have but a snug thousand."

"O, don't trouble yourself about that," replied the delighted squire. "I will loan you the balance at once. You can return it at some convenient time. What say you will you accompany me to the broker's, and inform him of the agreement?"

Mr. Short, after a moment's delay, arose, and, laying aside his leather apron, took the squire by the arm, and both sallied forth in search of the office of Varnum Gull. After wending their way through short streets and long lanes, narrow avenues and wide alleys, they came to a small gate, upon which was fastened a small tin sign with the following inscription: "V. Gull, broker, up the yard, round the corner, up two pair of stairs." The squire and Mr. Short followed the directions laid down, and, having gone up the yard and turned round the corner, they found themselves at the foot of the stairs. They stood for a moment silent, and were about to ascend, when a voice from above attracted their attention.

"'Ollo, Squire, 'ere's the box; walk right up 'ere; only look out, there's an 'ole in the stairs."

Our hero looked above, and perceived a man with green spectacles drawing his head in.

"We will go up," said the squire, "and look out for the hole; but, as the stairway is rather dark, we shall not see much; therefore we shall be obliged to feel our way."

They ascended, and escaped without injury. A little short man met them at the door, holding in his hand a paper bearing some resemblance to a map.

"Really, Mr. Smith, I feared you would lose that 'ere bargain I expatiated on. I 'ave received many good offers, but 'ave reserved it for you. Your friend, ha?" he continued, at the same time striking Mr. Short in no gentle manner upon the shoulder.

"Not friend Hay, but friend Short," replied the squire.

"Hall the same, only an error in the spelling," resumed the broker. "Good-morning, Mr. Short; s'pose you 'ave become 'quainted with the rare chance I've offered, an't ye? and wish to accept it, don't ye? and can pay for it, can't ye? Such an opportunity is seldom met with, by which to make one's fortune."

"Well," replied Mr. Short, improving the time Mr. Gull stopped to breathe, "well, I had some idea of so doing." "Hidea!" quickly responded the broker; "why will you 'esitate? read that!" and he handed a paper to Mr. Short which paper he kept for reference, and pointed out to him an article which read as follows:

"It is astonishing what enormous profits are at present realized by traders in Eastern Land. One of our neighbors purchased a thousand acres, at one dollar and twenty-five cents per acre, of Gull, our enterprising broker, and sold it yesterday for the round sum of three thousand dollars, receiving thereby the enormous profit of nineteen hundred and seventy-five dollars. He was a poor man, but by this lucky movement has become rich."

As soon as our hero had read this cheering intelligence, he became elated with the prospect, and soon came to a final agreement with the squire to accept the offer. Papers were drawn up, signed by each, and a check given to the broker, for which was returned a deed for the land. They then left the office, Mr. Gull politely bidding them good-by, with a caution to look out for the "'ole." They did look out for the hole, but it might have been that the cunning broker referred to a hole of more consequence than that in the stairs. The squire on that day invited Mr. Short to his house to dine. This, however, he did not accept, but returned to his shop. One week had passed away, during which time the squire was often at the shop of Bob Short, but no customer had yet applied for the land. It was near dusk on the eighth day succeeding the purchase, as they were talking over the best way by which to dispose of it, when a short man entered, wrapped up in a large cloak, and a large bushy fur cap upon his head.

"I understand," said he, "you have a few acres of land you wish to dispose of."

"Exactly so," answered the squire.

"And how much do you charge per acre?" inquired the stranger.

"That depends upon the number you wish. Do you wish to purchase all?"

"That depends upon the price charged," was the reply.

"If you wish all," continued Mr. Smith, "we will sell for four dollars an acre. That is dog cheap, and a great sacrifice."

"Well," resumed the stranger, "I will take it on conditions; namely, I will pay you your price, and if the land answers my purpose I will keep it,-if not, you will return me the amount of money I pay."

"That is rather a hard bargain. I know it to be good land," answered the squire.

"Then," continued the stranger, "if you know it to be good, certainly there can be no danger in disposing of it on the conditions I have named."

After a few moments' conversation with Mr. Short, they agreed to sell to the stranger. Papers were immediately drawn up and signed by Messrs. Smith and Short, agreeing to return the money provided the land did not give satisfaction. The sum of twelve thousand dollars was paid in cash to the signers, and the papers given into the hands of the purchaser, who then left. Robert Short on that night did really feel rich. This was six thousand dollars apiece; after Mr. Short had paid the fifteen hundred borrowed, he had forty-five hundred left. Both were equally certain that the land would give entire satisfaction, and acted according to this belief. With a light heart he went home, and communicated the joyful intelligence to his wife, who had from the first been opposed to the trade. He did not, however, inform her of the terms on which he had sold. In a few days he had disposed of his shop and tools to one of his former workmen. Many were surprised when the sign of "Robert Short" was taken from its long resting-place over the door. Mr. Short now began to think the house in which he had for many years resided was not quite good enough, and therefore engaged a larger and more expensive one. He ordered new furniture, purchased a carriage and horses, and had his new house fitted out under the direction of his friend, the squire. He rented a large store; bought large quantities of shoes and leather, partly on credit. His business at first prospered, but in a short time became quite dull; his former customers left, and all business seemed at a stand-still. In the mean time, the broker had left town, having sold out his office to a young man. Matters stood thus, when, early in the morning on a pleasant day in June, as the squire and Mr. Short were seated in the counting-room of the latter, a man dressed in a light summer dress entered.

"Good-morning," said the visitor. "Business is quite lively, I suppose?"

"O, it's moderate, nothing extra," replied Mr. Short; "won't you be seated?"

The stranger seated himself.

"Mr. Robert Short is your name, is it not?" he inquired.

"It is, sir."

"Did I not make a bargain with you about some eastern land, a few months since?"

"Yes, some person did;" and Mr. Short immediately recognized him as the purchaser. The new comer then took from his pocket the paper of agreement, and presented it for the inspection of the two gentlemen.

"Are you not satisfied with your bargain?" inquired Mr. Smith.

"Not exactly," replied the stranger, laughing.

"Why, what fault is there in it?"

"Well," replied the stranger, "I suppose a report of my examination will be acceptable."

"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Short.

"Then I can give it in a few words. It is a good watering place, being WHOLLY COVERED WITH WATER; and is of no value unless it could be drained, and that, I think, is impossible."

The squire was astonished; Mr. Short knew not what to

"What is the name of the water bought for land?" inquired Squire

Smith.

"The location of it is in a large pond of water, twelve miles in length, and about six in width, and is known in those parts by the name of the 'Big Pond.' But," continued the stranger, "I must be gone; please return me my money, according to agreement."

After some talk, the stranger agreed to call the next day. The next day came, and with it came the stranger. Mr. Short had tried in vain to obtain the requisite sum, and was obliged to request him to call the next day. He came the next day, and the next, and the next, but received no money; and he was at length obliged to attach the property of the squire, as also that of Mr. Short. His other creditors also came in with their bills. All the stock of Mr. Short was sold at auction, and he was a poor man. He obtained a small house, that would not compare with the one he had lived in in former years. He had no money of his own, and was still deeply in debt. He was obliged to work at such jobs as came along, but at length obtained steady employment. The squire, who was the prime cause of all his trouble, sailed for a foreign port, leaving all his bills unpaid, In a short time Mr. Short obtained a sufficient sum to buy back his old shop, in which to this day he has steadily worked, with a vivid remembrance of the consequence of speculation.

RETROSPECTION.

HE had drank deep and long from out

The bacchanalian's bowl;

Had felt its poisonous arrows pierce

The recess of his soul;

And now his footsteps turned to where

His childhood's days were cast,

And sat him 'neath an old oak tree

To muse upon the past.

Beneath its shade he oft had sat

In days when he was young;

Ere sorrow, like that old oak tree,

Its own deep shadows flung;

Beneath that tree his school-mates met,

There joined in festive mirth,

And not a place seemed half so dear

To him, upon the earth.

The sun had passed the horizon,

Yet left a golden light

Along a cloudless sky to mark

A pathway for the night;

The moon was rising silently

To reign a queen on high,

To marshal all the starry host,

In heaven's blue canopy.

In sight the schoolhouse stood, to which

In youth he had been led

By one who now rests quietly

Upon earth's silent bed.

And near it stood the church whose aisles

His youthful feet had trod;

Where his young mind first treasured in

The promises of God.

There troops of happy children ran

With gayety along;

'T was agony for him to hear

Their laughter and their song.

For thoughts of youthful days came up

And crowded on his brain,

Till, crushed with woe unutterable,

It sank beneath its pain.

Pain! not such as sickness brings,

For that can be allayed,

But pain from which a mortal shrinks

Heart-stricken and dismayed:

The body crushed beneath its woe

May some deliverance find,

But who on earth hath power to heal

The agony of mind?

O Memory! it long had slept;

But now it woke to power,

And brought before him all the past,

From childhood's earliest hour.

He saw himself in school-boy prime;

Then youth, its pleasures, cares,

Came up before him, and he saw

How cunningly the snares

Were set to catch him as he ran

In thoughtless haste along,

To charm him with deceitful smiles,

And with its siren song:

He saw a seeming friendly hand

Hold out the glittering wine,

Without a thought that deep within

A serpent's form did twine.

Then manhood came; then he did love,

And with a worthy pride

He led a cherished being to

The altar as his bride;

And mid the gay festivity

Passed round the flowing wine,

And friends drank, in the sparkling cup,

A health to thee and thine.

A health! O, as the past came up,

The wanderer's heart was stirred

And as a madman he poured forth

Deep curses on that word.

For well he knew that "health" had been

The poison of his life;

Had made the portion of his soul

With countless sorrows rife.

Six years passed by-a change had come,

And what a change was that!

No more the comrades of his youth

With him as comrades sat.

Duties neglected, friends despised,

Himself with naught to do,

A mother dead with anguish, and

A wife heart-broken too.

Another year-and she whom he

Had promised to protect

Died in the midst of poverty,

A victim of neglect.

But ere she died she bade him kneel

Beside herself in prayer,

And prayed to God that he would look

In pity on them there:

And bless her husband, whom she loved,

And all the past forgive,

And cause him, ere she died, begin

A better life to live.

She ceased to speak,-the husband rose,

And, penitent, did say,

While tears of deep contrition flowed,

"I'll dash the bowl away!"

A smile passed o'er the wife's pale face,

She grasped his trembling hand,

Gave it one pressure, then her soul

Passed to a better land.

He, bent to kiss her pale cold lips,

But they returned it not;

And then he felt the loneliness

And sorrow of his lot.

It seemed as though his life had fled;

That all he called his own,

When her pure spirit took its flight,

Had with that spirit flown.

She had been all in all to him,

And deep his heart was riven

With anguish, as he thought what woe

He her kind heart had given.

But all was passed; she lay in death,

The last word had been said,

The soul had left its prison-house,

And up to heaven had fled;

But 't was a joy for him to know

She smiled on him in love,

And hope did whisper in his heart,

"She'll guard thee from above."

He sat beneath that old oak tree,

And children gathered round,

And wondered why he wept, and asked

What sorrow he had found.

Then told he them this sad, sad tale,

Which I have told to you;

They asked no more why he did weep,

For they his sorrow knew.

And soon their tears began to fall,

And men came gathering round,

Till quite a goodly company

Beneath that tree was found.

The wanderer told his story o'er,

Unvarnished, true and plain;

And on that night three-score of men

Did pledge them to abstain.

NATURE'S FAIR DAUGHTER, BEAUTIFUL WATER.

NATURE'S fair daughter,

Beautiful water!

O, hail it with joy, with echoes of mirth,

Wherever it sparkles or ripples on earth.

Down from the mountain,

Up from the fountain,

Ever it cometh, bright, sparkling and clear,

From the Creator, our pathway to cheer.

Nobly appearing,

O'er cliffs careering,

Pouring impetuously on to the sea,

Chanting, unceasing, the song of the free.

See how it flashes

As onward it dashes

Over the pebbly bed of the brook,

Singing in every sequestered nook.

Now gently falling,

As if 't were calling

Spirits of beauty from forest and dell

To welcome it on to grotto and cell.

Beauteous and bright

Gleams it in light,

Then silently flows beneath the deep glade,

Emblem of life in its sunshine and shade.

Beautiful water!

Nature's fair daughter!

Where'er it sparkles or ripples on earth,

Hail it with joy and with echoes of mirth.

THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP.

BRIGHTEST shine the stars above

When the night is darkest round us;

Those the friends we dearest love

Who were near when sorrow bound us.

When no clouds o'ercast our sky,

When no evil doth attend us,

Then will many gather nigh,

Ever ready to befriend us.

But when darkness shades our path,

When misfortune hath its hour,

When we lie beneath its wrath,

Some will leave us to its power.

Often have we seen at night,

When the clouds have gathered o'er us,

One lone star send forth its light,

Marking out the path before us.

Like that star some friendly eye

Will beam on us in our sorrow;

And, though clouded be our sky,

We know there'll be a better morrow.

We know that all will not depart,

That some will, gather round to cheer us:

Know we, in our inmost heart,

Tried and faithful friends are near us.

Brother, those who do not go

May be deemd friends forever;

Love them, trust them, have them know

Nothing can your friendship sever.

WEEP NOT.

WEEP not, mother,

For another

Tie that bound thyself to earth

Now is sundered,

And is numbered

With those of a heavenly birth.

She hath left thee.

God bereft thee

Of thy dearest earthly friend;

Yet thou'lt meet her,

Thou wilt greet her

Where reunions have no end

Her life's true sun

Its course did run

From morn unto meridian day;

And now at eve

It takes its leave,

Calmly passing hence away.

Watch the spirit-

'T will inherit

Bliss which mortal cannot tell;

From another

World, my mother,

Angels whisper, "All is well."

'Way with sadness!

There is gladness

In a gathered spirit throng;

She, ascended,

Trials ended,

Joins their ranks and chants their song.

Weep not, mother,

For another

Tie doth bind thyself above;

Doubts are vanished,

Sorrows banished,

She is happy whom you love.

RICH AND POOR.

"GOOD-BY, Ray, good-by," said George Greenville; and the stage wound its way slowly up a steep ascent, and was soon lost to view.

"Well, well, he has gone. Glad of it, heartily glad of it! When will all these paupers be gone?" said the father of George, as he entered the richly-furnished parlor, and seated himself beside an open window.

"Why so glad?" inquired George, who listened with feelings of regret to the remark.

"Why?" resumed the owner of a thousand acres; "ask me no questions;

I am glad,-that's enough. You well know my mind on the subject."

"Father, act not thus. Is this a suitable way to requite his kindness?"

"Kindness!" interrupted the old man; "say not 't was kindness that prompted him to do me a favor; rather say 't was his duty,-and of you should I not expect better things? Did I allow you to visit Lemont but to become acquainted with such a poverty-stricken, pauper-bred youth as Ray Bland?"

Saying this, he arose and left the room.

George seated himself in the chair vacated by his father. He looked across the verdant fields, and mused upon his passionate remarks. "Well," thought he, "I was right; shall I allow the god of Mammon to bind me down? Of what use are riches, unless, whilst we enjoy, we can with them relieve the wants and administer to the necessities of our fellow-men? Shall we hoard them up, or shall we not rather give with a free hand and a willing heart to those who have felt misfortune's scourging rod,-who are crushed, oppressed and trampled upon, by not a few of their more wealthy neighbors?" In such a train of thought he indulged himself till the hour of dinner arrived.

George Greenville had formed an acquaintance with Ray Bland whilst on a visit to a neighboring town. He was a young man, possessing those fine qualities of mind that constitute the true gentleman. His countenance beamed with intelligence, and his sparkling eye betrayed vivacity of mind, the possession of which was a sure passport to the best of society. When the time came that George was to return home to the companionship of his friends, they found that ties of friendship bound them which could not be easily severed, and Ray accepted the invitation of George Greenville to accompany him, and spend a short time at the house of his father. The week had passed away in a pleasant manner. The hour of parting had come and gone; The farewell had been taken, the "good-by" had been repeated, when the conversation above mentioned passed between him and his father.

The family and connections of George were rich; those of Ray were poor. The former lived at ease in the midst of pleasures, and surrounded by all the comforts and conveniences of life; the latter encountered the rough waves of adversity, and was obliged to labor with assiduity, to sustain an equal footing with his neighbors. Thus were the two friends situated; and old Theodore Greenville scorned the idea of having his son associate with a pauper, as he termed all those who were not the possessors of a certain amount of money,-without which, in his opinion, none were worthy to associate with the rich.

"Ray is a person not so much to be hated and sneered at as you would suppose," said George, breaking the silence, and addressing his father at the dinner-table.

"George, I have set my heart against him," was the reply.

"Then," continued the first speaker, "I suppose you are not open to conviction. If I can prove him worthy of your esteem and confidence, will you believe?"

"That cannot be done, perhaps. You may think him to be a worthy young man; but I discard the old saying that poverty is no disgrace! I say that it is; and one that can, if its victim choose, be washed away. Ray Bland is a pauper, that's my only charge against him; and all the thundering eloquence of a Cicero will not alter my opinion, or move me an iota from the stand I have taken,-which is, now and ever, to reject the company of paupers. It is my request that you do the same."

Amelia, the sister of George, now joined in the conversation, inquiring of her father whether it was against his will for her to associate with the poor.

"Precisely so," was the brief reply; and the conversation ended. The father left the house for a short walk, as was his custom, whilst George and Amelia retired to the parlor, and conversed, for a long time, upon the rash and unjust decision of their parent. The mutual attachment that existed between George and Ray was not looked upon with indifference by the sister of the former; and she determined upon using all the means in her power to bring the latter into the good will of her father; she resolved, like a noble girl, to cherish a social and friendly feeling toward the friend of her brother. He who knows the warmth of a sister's affection can imagine with what constancy she adhered to this determination. The command of her father not to associate with the poor only served to strengthen her resolution, for she knew with what obstacles her brother would have to contend. She had a kind heart, that would not allow a fellow-being to want, so long as she had, or could obtain, the means to relieve him.

"Do you think father was in earnest in what he said?" inquired

Amelia.

"I have no reason to doubt his sincerity," replied George; "but what led you to ask such a question?"

"Because, you know, he often speaks ironically; and, as he left the dinner-room with mother, he smiled, and said something about the poor, and a trick he was about to play."

"True, Amelia," replied George, "he is to play a trick; but it concerns not us. You know poor old Smith is one of father's tenants. Smith has been sick, and has not been able to procure funds with which to pay his rent, and father intends to engage a person to take out all the doors and windows of the house. He hopes Smith will thus be forced to leave. I have been thinking whether we cannot devise some plan to prevent the poor man from being turned thus abruptly from the house."

"I am sure we can," replied Amelia; "yet I had much rather have a trick played upon us than upon poor Smith. Can you not propose some way by which we can prevent father from carrying out his intentions?"

"I will give you the money," replied George, "if you will convey it to Mr. Smith, so that he will be enabled to pay his rent. Recollect it must be carried in the night, and this night, as father expects to commence his operations to-morrow or next day. You know that I cannot go, as my time will be fully occupied in attending upon some important business at home." It was not necessary to make this offer more than once. The heart of Amelia bounded with joy, as she anticipated being the bearer of the money to Smith; and, shortly after dark, being provided with it, she proceeded to his house.

It was a dark night. The moon was obscured by thick clouds, and no twinkling star shone to guide her on her errand of mercy. As she drew near the lonely dwelling of Paul Smith, she perceived no light. She feared that he might be absent. Stealthily along she crept, and, listening at the door, heard the voice of prayer, imploring aid and support during the trials of life, that relief might soon be sent. Amelia silently opened the door, and placed the money on a table, accompanied with a note to Smith, requesting him not to disclose the manner in which he received it, and, as silently withdrawing, wended her way home. As she entered the parlor, she found her father and brother engaged in earnest conversation,-so earnest that she was not at first noticed.

"Confound my tenants!" said Mr. Greenville. "There's old Paul Smith; if to-morrow's sun does not witness him bringing my just dues, he shall leave,-yes, George, he shall leave! I am no more to be trifled with and perplexed by his trivial excuses. All my tenants who do not pay shall toe the same mark. I'll make them walk up, fodder or no fodder! Ha, ha, ha! old Smith shall know that I have some principle left, if I have passed my sixtieth year-that he shall! Slipnoose, the lawyer, shall have one job."

"You are always visiting your friends, George. It seems as though all are your friends. Yet I don't blame you, for friends are very happy appendages to one's character. I pity the man who lives a friendless life. That's the reason I have been such a friend to Smith,-but no longer!" As he said this the wealthy landlord left the room.

Amelia related to her brother an account of her adventure, and both were thankful that they been instrumental in relieving the wants of their poor neighbors. The next morning, seated at the table, Mr. Greenville began again to express his opinion respecting poor people in general, and Paul Smith in particular, when a loud rap at the door somewhat startled him. In a few moments a servant entered, and gave information that a person was at the door who wished to see Mr. Greenville. Arriving there, the landlord encountered his tenant, Smith, who immediately told him that by some kind providence he was enabled to pay him his due, and hoped that in future he should be prompt in his payments.

The landlord took the money, and, looking it over, handed him a receipt for the same, and returned to the breakfast-table. Nothing was said about Smith until Mr. Greenville, as he left the room, remarked "that he did not know but that Smith meant well enough."

Nearly a month had elapsed and nothing had been heard of Ray Bland, when, on a certain morning, Mr. Greenville came in and handed George a letter. Upon opening it, George found it to be written by his friend Ray, informing him of his safe arrival home, thanking him for the kind attention he received during his visit, and expressing great pleasure in soon having another opportunity to visit him. George communicated this intelligence to Amelia, and they determined upon using their united efforts in endeavoring to bring over the kind feelings of their father to their young, but poor, friend.

"It's no use for you to talk," said old Mr. Greenville, after a long conversation with the two; "the die is cast. I have resolved, and all the arguments you can bring forward will not cause me to break my resolution."

"Well," remarked George, "perhaps the day will come when you will deeply regret forming such a resolution. Perhaps the sunshine of prosperity will not always illumine our path."

"Be that as it may," interrupted Mr. Greenville, "we will not allow our imagination to wander forth into the mystical regions of the future, or picture to ourselves scenes of wretchedness, if such await us. Flatter me not with the good intentions of Ray Bland."

Months passed away, and the children of the proud Mr. Greenville forbore to mention in the presence of their father aught concerning their friend Ray Bland, or to excite the anger of the old gentleman by combating his prejudices against the poor.

Months passed away, and again Ray Bland found himself beneath the roof of his former friend. He was received by George and Amelia with the cordiality that had ever marked his intercourse with them; but the father was, if possible, more morose and sullen than usual.

Ray had several times made the attempt to know the cause of this coldness, but as often as he alluded to it George would invariably turn the subject; and he forbore to question further, content with the happiness which he enjoyed in the society of those he held so dear.

It was the evening of a fine day in the early spring, that the three friends sat together. It was the last evening of his visit, and Ray expected not to return for a long time. Alone in his study, the father vented his indignation against paupers, which respect for his daughter's feelings only prevented in the presence of their visitor. He opened the casement. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and now and then a faint flash of lightning illumined the increasing darkness; and the far-off voice of the storm was audible from the distance, each moment increasing in strength and violence. Soon the storm was upon them.

The old gentleman retired to his apartment. Each moment the storm increased in violence, and in vain did he strive to close his eyes in sleep.

At length a flash more vivid, accompanied by a peal of thunder more terrific than any that had preceded it, startled the inmates of the mansion. The wind howled terribly, and the old trees groaned and creaked about the dwelling with a fearful and terrific sound.

Within all was still and quiet. No word was spoken, for it was a fearful night, and in fear and dread they suspended their conversation.

Amelia first broke the silence. "Something must be burning," exclaimed she. In an instant the cry of fire was heard. All started up and rushed to the door; and there, indeed, they were witnesses of a sight which might well appall. The whole upper part of the house was in flames. Instantly the cause flashed upon them. The house had been struck and set on fire by lightning. "My father! O, my father!" shrieked Amelia, and fell fainting to the floor. Quick as the word came the thought of Ray Bland that the aged Mr. Greenville might be in danger; and ere George Greenville had borne his sister to a place of safety, through flame and smoke had Ray Bland reached the chamber which he knew the old gentleman occupied. It was locked. One blow of his foot, with all the force he could muster, and locks and bolts gave way. The room was nearly enveloped in flames, the curtains of the window and bed had been consumed, and now the flames had seized the wood-work and burned with great fury. Upon the floor, prostrate as if dead, lay the proud man, who scorned and detested the poor, and who had boasted of being beyond the reach of adversity. To lift him in his arms and bear him to the street was the work of an instant. He had only been stunned, and the drenching rain through which he was carried soon revived him. Ray bore him to the house of poor Smith, the nearest to his own; and there, with feelings of anguish which cannot be described, surrounded by his children and neighbors, the old man learned a lesson which his whole previous life had not taught, of the dependence which every member of society has upon the whole. While his riches were taking wings to fly away even before his own eyes, he felt how foolish and wicked was his past conduct; and ever after the poor found no warmer friend or more liberal hand than that of old George Greenville.

In the course of a few months a new and spacious building was erected upon the site of the one destroyed; and the neighbors say that the pretty cottage which is being built just over the way is to be the future residence of Ray Bland and the fair Amelia, whose aristocratic father now knows no distinction, save in merit, between the rich and poor.

THE HOMEWARD BOUND.

SLOWLY he paced the vessel's whitened deck,

While thoughts of hours, and days, and scenes long past,

Brought forth from fountains well-nigh dry a tear:

For in imagination he could see

Himself a tiny boy, in childish sport

Upon a river's bank, quite near his home,

Chasing the butterfly, whose gaudy dress

Lured him away, till, wearied with the chase,

Upon some mossy stone he sat him down;

Or, in some rippling brook, beneath the shade

Of some tall oak, he bathed his parched brow;

Then up he sprang, retraced his wandering steps,

Yet heedless ran, and could not leave his play.

And since that day what scenes had he passed through,

What trials met, what sights his eyes beheld!

Beneath the burning skies of torrid zones,

On frozen banks of Nova Zembla's coast,

Or the more fertile climes of Italy;

There, where the luscious grape in fulness hangs,

And fields of roses yield a rich perfume;

'Mid orange-groves whence sweetest odors rise,

'Neath branches burdened with their fragrant fruit,

Forth he had wandered.

Mark the semblance now!

For much there is between his childish course

Upon the river's bank and his later

Wanderings. Then, he chased the butterfly. Now,

His inclination led to a pursuit

More bold, adventurous, and far more grand.

Ambition filled his soul. Sometimes he ran

In vain; and so it was in boyhood's days;

And thus 't is plainly seen that childhood hours

Are but an index of our future life,

And life an index of that yet to come.

As on the vessel swept, a tear would 'scape

Forth from its hidden cell, and trickle down

The sailor's deeply-furrowed cheek, to bathe

Those recollections with the dew of Thought!

Some deem it weak to weep. Away the thought!

It is not weakness when Affection's fount

O'erflows its borders, and to man displays

The feelings that its powers cannot conceal.

It is not weakness when our feeble words

Find utterance only in our flowing tears.

Call not such language "weakness"! Worlds may laugh,

Yet know no joy like that which often flows

In silent tears.

As nearer drew the seaman to his home,

As in the distance first he saw the spot

Where childhood's hours in happiness were spent,

His slow pace quickened to a faster walk,

And, had he had the power, he'd walked the waves,

And bravely dashed the intrusive spray aside,

To reach the much-loved spot more rapidly

Than wind and tide urged on his noble bark.

THE POOR OF EARTH.

I'VE often wondered, as I've sat

Within mine own loved home,

And thought of those, my fellow-men,

Who houseless, homeless, roam;

That one upon this earth is found

Whose heart good promptings smother;

And will not share his wealth with him

Who is his poorer brother!

I've often wondered, as I've walked

Amid life's busy throng,

And seen my fellows who have been

By Fortune helped along,

That they who bask in its bright rays

No tear of pity shed

On him who doth no "fortune" seek,

But asks a crust of bread!

I've seen the gilded temple raised,

The aspirant of fame

Ascend the altar's sacred steps,

To preach a Saviour's name,

And wondered, as I stood and gazed

At those rich-cushioned pews,

Where he who bears the poor man's fate

Might hear Salvation's news.

I've walked within the church-yard's walls,

With holy dread and fear,

And on its marble tablets read

"None but the rich lie here."

I've wandered till I came upon

A heap of moss-grown stones,

And some one whispered in mine ear,

"Here rest the poor man's bones."

My spirit wandered on, until

It left the scenes of earth;

Until I stood with those who'd passed

Through death, the second birth.

And I inquired, with holy awe,

"Who are they within this fold,

Who seem to be Heaven's favorite,

And wear those crowns of gold?"

Then a being came unto me,

One of angelic birth,

And in most heavenly accents said,

"Those were the poor of earth."

Then from my dream I woke, but

Will ne'er forget its worth;

For ever since that vision

I have loved "the poor of earth."

And when I see them toiling on

To earn their daily bread,

And dire oppression crush them down,

Till every joy hath fled,-

I mind me of that better world,

And of that heavenly fold,

Where every crown of thorns gives place

Unto a crown of gold.

IF I DON'T, OTHERS WILL.

"IF I don't make it, others will;

So I'll keep up my death-drugged still.

Come, Zip, my boy, pile on the wood,

And make it blaze as blaze it should;

For I do heartily love to see

The flames dance round it merrily!

"Hogsheads, you want?-well, order them made;

The maker will take his pay in trade.

If, at the first, he will not consent,

Treat him with wine till his wits are spent;

Then, when his reason is gone, you know

Whate'er we want from his hands will flow!

"Ah, what do you say?-'that won't be fair'?

You're conscientious, I do declare!

I thought so once, when I was a boy,

But since I have been in this employ

I've practised it, and many a trick,

By the advice of my friend, Old Nick.

I thought 't was wrong till he hushed my fears

With derisive looks, and taunts, and jeers,

And solemnly said to me, 'My Bill,

If you don't do it, some others will!'

"If I don't sell it, some others will;

So bottles, and pitchers, and mugs I'll fill.

When trembling child, who is sent, shall come,

Shivering with cold, and ask for rum

(Yet fearing to raise its wet eyes up),

I'll measure it out in its broken cup!

"Ah! what do you say?-'the child wants bread'?

Well, 't is n't my duty to see it fed;

If the parents will send to me to buy,

Do you think I'd let the chance go by

To get me gain? O, I'm no such fool;

That is not taught in the world's wide school!

"When the old man comes with nervous gait,

Loving, yet cursing his hapless fate,

Though children and wife and friends may meet,

And me with tears and with sighs entreat

Not to sell him that which will be his death,

I'll hear what the man with money saith;

If he asks for rum and shows the gold,

I'll deal it forth, and it shall be sold!

"Ah! do you say, 'I should heed the cries

Of weeping friends that around me rise'?

May be you think so; I tell you what,-

I've a rule which proves that I should not;

For, know you, though the poison kill,

If I don't sell it, some others will!"

A strange fatality came on all men,

Who met upon a mountain's rocky side;

They had been sane and happy until then,

But then on earth they wished not to abide.

The sun shone brightly, but it had no charm;

The soft winds blew, but them did not elate;

They seemed to think all joined to do them harm,

And urge them onward to a dreadful fate.

I did say "all men," yet there were a few

Who kept their reason well,-yet, weak, what could they do?

The men rushed onward to the jagged rocks,

Then plunged like madmen in their madness o'er;

From peak to peak they scared the feathered flocks,

And far below lay weltering in their gore.

The sane men wondered, trembled, and they strove

To stay the furies; but they could not do it.

Whate'er they did, however fenced the drove,

The men would spring the bounds or else break through it,

And o'er the frightful precipice they leaped,

Till rock and tree seemed in their red blood steeped.

One of the sane men was a great distiller

And one sold liquors in a famous city;

And, by the way, one was an honest miller,

Who looked on both their trades in wrath and pity.

This good "Honestus" spoke to them, and said,

"You'd better jump; if you don't, others will."

Each took his meaning, yet each shook his head.

"That is no reason we ourselves should kill,"

Said they, while very stupid-brained they seemed,

As though they of the miller's meaning never dreamed.

NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR.

BEING A TRUE ACCOUNT OF AN INCIDENT IN THE HISTORY OF THE STUBBS FAMILY.

MR. and MRS. STUBBS were seated at the side of a red-hot cylinder stove. On one side, upon the floor, a small black-and-white dog lay very composedly baking himself; on the other, an old brown cat was, in as undisturbed a manner, doing the same. The warmth that existed between them was proof positive that they had not grown cold towards each other, though the distance between them might lead one to suppose they had.

In one corner of the room was the bust of a man, whose only existence was in the imagination of a miserable ship-carver, who, in his endeavors to breathe life into his block, came near breathing life out of himself, by sitting up late at night at his task. In the other hung a crook-necked squash, festooned with wreaths of spider-webs. Above the mantel-piece was suspended a painting representing a feat performed by a certain dog, of destroying one hundred rats in eight minutes. The frame in which this gem of art was placed was once gilt, but, at the time to which we refer, was covered with the dust of ages.

Mr. Stubbs poked the fire. Mrs. Stubbs poked the dog, when suddenly the door flew open, and their son entered with blackened eyes, bloody hands; bruised face and dirty clothes, the most belligerent-looking creature this side of the "Rio Grande."

"My voice a'nt still for war, it's loud for war," he said, as, with a braggadocia sort of air, he threw his cap at the dog, who clenched it between his teeth, shook it nearly to tatters, and then passed it over to the cat.

"What's the matter now, Jake?" said Mrs. Stubbs. "Always in trouble,-fights and broils seem to be your element. I don't know, Jake, what will become of you, if you go on at this rate. What say you, father?"

Mr. Stubbs threw down the poker, and casting a glance first at his hopeful son, and then at his hoping wife, replied that Jake was an ignorant, pugnacious, good-for-nothing scamp, and never would come to anything, unless to a rope's end.

"O, how can you talk so?" said his wife. "You know it's nat'ral."

"Nat'ral!" shouted the father; "then it's ten times worse-the harder then to rid him of his quarrelsome habits. But I've an idea," said he, his face brightening up at the thought, as though he had clenched and made it fast and sure.

The mother started as by an electric shock. The boy, who had retired into one corner in a sullen mood, freshened up, and looked at his father. The ship-carver's fancy sketch brightened up also; but not of its own free will, for the force with which Mr. Stubbs brought his hand in contact with the table caused the dirty veil to fall from the bust-er's face.

"What is it?" inquired Mrs. Stubbs, with much animation.

"Why, my dear woman, as we can do nothing with him, we'll make him an editor."

The old lady inquired what that was; and, being informed, expressed doubts as to his ability.

"Why," said she, "he cannot write distinctly."

"What of that?'-let him write with the scissors and paste-pot. Let him learn; many know q great deal more after having learned."

"But he must have some originality in his paper," said Mrs. Stubbs, who, it seemed, did not fall in with the general opinion that "any one can edit a paper."

"Never fear that," said Mr. Stubbs; "he'll conduct anything he takes hold of, rather than have that conduct him. I'll tell you what, old woman, Jake shall be an editor, whether he can write a line of editorial or not. Jake, come here."

Jake, who had nearly forgotten his fight, was elated at the proposition of his father, and, being asked whether, in his opinion, he could conduct a paper with ability, originality and success, replied, in the slang phrase of the day, that he "could n't do anything else," at the same time clenching his fist, as though to convince his sire that he could do something else, notwithstanding.

"As I have never asked you any question relative to public affairs, and as the people of this generation are getting to be wise, I deem it right that I should ask you a few questions before endeavoring to obtain a situation. Now, Jake, who is the President of the United States?"

"General George Washington," replied the intelligent lad, or rather young man; for, though he indulged in many boyish tricks, he was about twenty years of age, a short, dull-looking member of the "great unwashed." The father intimated that he was mistaken; the son persisted in saying that he was not.

"Never mind the catechizer," said Jake; "I'll conduct a newspaper, I will, for Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs never see the day I could n't conduct anything."

"That's bright," said Mrs. Stubbs; "he possesses more talent than I was aware of; he'll make an editor."

"An' he shall," said the father, resolutely.

The clock struck nine, which was the signal for Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs to retire, and they did so. No sooner had they left than their dutiful son mounted the table, and, taking down the fancy bust, pulled the dog by the tail to awake him, and set him barking at it. The cat must have her part in the tragedy, so Jake thought; and, pulling her by the tail, she was soon on the field of action.

"Now, sist-a-boy, Tozer; give her an editorial," said he; and, as dog and cat had been through the same performance before, they acted their parts in manner suiting. The dog barked, the cat snapped and snarled, and Jake Stubbs stood by rubbing his hands in a perfect ecstasy of delight.

It is needless for us to relate the many curious adventures Mr.

Stubbs met with whilst searching for a situation for Jake.

His endeavors to find a situation such as he wanted were, for a long time, ineffectual. At length he blundered into a small printing-office, where three men and a boy were testing the merits of half a dozen doughnuts, and a bottle of root beer.

Mr. Stubbs was very sorry to disturb them. When he mentioned his errand, one of the men-a tall fellow, with check shirt and green apron-said that he had, for a long time, contemplated starting a paper, but, as he was not capable of editing one, he had not carried out his intention. The principal reason why he had not published was, he was poor; business had not prospered in his hands, and an outlay of two thousand dollars would be needed to commence and continue the paper.

"Very well," replied Mr. Stubbs, "that is a large sum; but, if there is no doubt of its being returned, I might think of loaning it to you, for the sake of getting my talented son into business."

"Not the least doubt, not the least," replied Mr. Pica; and he so inflamed the imagination of Mr. Stubbs, that, strange as it may seem to the cautious reader, he wrote a check for the amount, merely taking the unendorsed note of Mr. Pica as security; then, hastening home, he told Mrs. Stubbs to brush up the boy, for he was an editor.

Behold, now, Mr. Jake Stubbs in a little room up three pair of stairs, preparing "copy" for the first number of "The Peg Top, or the Buzz of the Nation." He hasn't got black eyes now; all the blackness of his person, if not of his character, has settled in his fingers, and they are black with ink. Not all settled, for a few daubs of the "blood of the world," as the dark fluid has been called, were to be seen on his forehead, having passed there from his fingers, when leaning upon them in a pensive mood, vainly endeavoring to bring up thoughts from the mighty depths of his intellect,-so mighty, in fact, that his thoughts were kept there, and refused to come up.

Mr. Jake Stubbs had been cutting and pasting all day, when, thinking it a little too severe to inflict further duty upon the assistant editor, he took his pen in hand, resolved upon writing a masterly article as a leader.

A sheet of blank paper had lain on the table before him for nearly an hour. He would sit and think. Some idea would pop into his head, then with a dash would the pen go into the ink, but before he could get his pen out the idea had flown, and the world was the loser. Then he threw himself back into his chair,-thought, thought, thought. At length Jake obtained the mastery, as patience and perseverance always will, and the pen became his willing slave, though his mind, being the slave-driver, did not hurry it on very fast. He was able to pen a few words, and wrote "The war with Mexico-"

Well, he had got so far; that was very original, and if he never wrote anything else, would stamp him a man of talent. Into the ink, on the paper, and his pen wrote the little word are. "The war with Mexico are." Ten minutes more of steady thought, and three more words brought him to a full stop. "The war with Mexico are a indisputable fact." That last but one was a long word, and a close observer could have seen his head expand with the effort.

"Copy, sir, copy!" shouted the printer's boy, as he stood with his arms daubed with ink, and a straw hat upon his head that had seen service, and looked old enough to retire and live on a pension.

"Copy what?" inquired the editor, who began to feel indignant, imagining that the publisher had seen his labor to write an article, and had sent him word to copy from some paper.

"Here," said he, "take this to Mr. Pica, and tell him 't is original, and gives an account of the war with Mexico, with news up to this date."

The boy took it, trudged up stairs with two lines of MS., and the editor arose and walked his office, as though his labors were o'er, and he might rest and see some mighty spirit engrave his name upon the scroll of fame.

He had crossed the floor half a dozen times, when in came the same youth, shouting "Copy, sir, copy!"

"Copy what?" shouted Jake, laying hold of the boy's shirt-sleeve. "Tell me what you want copied! tell me, sir, or I will shake your interiors out of you-"

The boy was small, but spunky. His education had been received at the corners of the streets. He had never taken lessons of a professor, but he had practised upon a number of urchins smaller than himself, and had become a thoroughly proficient and expert pugilist.

It was not for Bill Bite to be roughly handled by any one, not even by an editor. So he pushed him from him, and said,

"I want copy; that's a civil question,-I want a civil answer."

Jake's organ of combativeness became enlarged. He sprang at the boy, grasped him by the waist, and would have thrown him down stairs, had not a movement the boy made prevented him.

Bill's arms were loose, and, nearing the table, he took the inkstand and dashed the contents into the face of his assailant.

"Murder!" shouted the editor.

"Copy!" shouted the boy; and such a rumpus was created, that up came Mr. Pica, saying that the building was so shaken that an article in type on the subject of "Health and Diet" suddenly transformed itself into "pi."

The two belligerents were parted; the editor and Master Bill Bite stood at extremes. At this crisis who should enter but Mr. Stubbs, senior, who, seeing his son's face blackened with ink, inquired the cause rather indignantly; at which Mr. Pica, not recognizing in the indignant inquirer the father of the "talented editor," turned suddenly about and struck him a blow in the face, that displaced his spectacles, knocked off his white hat into a pond of ink, and made the old fellow see stars amid the cobwebs and dust of the ceiling.

The son, seeing himself again at liberty, flew at the boy, and gave him "copy" of a very impressive kind.

Down from the shelves came dusty papers and empty bottles, whilst up from the printing-office came the inmates, to learn the cause of the disturbance.

A couple of police-officers passing at the time, hearing the noise, entered, and one of them taking Mr. Stubbs, senior, and the other Mr. Stubbs, junior, bore them off to the lock-up.

This affair put a sudden stop to "The Buzz of the Nation." The first number never made its appearance.

Mr. Pica, having obtained the amount of the check, went into the country for his health, and has not been heard from since.

Elder Stubbs and Stubbs the younger paid a fine of five dollars each; and when they reached home and related to Mrs. Stubbs the facts in the case, she took off her spectacles, and, after a few moments' sober thought, came to the sage conclusion that her son Jake was not made for an editor.

HERE'S TO THE HEART THAT'S EVER BRIGHT.

HERE'S to a heart that's ever bright,

Whatever may betide it,

Though fortune may not smile aright,

And evil is beside it;

That lets the world go smiling on,

But, when it leans to sadness,

Will cheer the heart of every one

With its bright smile of gladness!

A fig for those who always sigh

And fear an ill to-morrow;

Who, when they have no troubles nigh,

Will countless evils borrow;

Who poison every cup of joy,

By throwing in a bramble;

And every hour of time employ

In a vexatious scramble.

What though the heart be sometimes sad!

'T is better not to show it;

'T will only chill a heart that's glad,

If it should chance to know it.

So, cheer thee up if evil's nigh,

Droop not beneath thy sadness;

If sorrow finds thou wilt not sigh,

'T will leave thy heart to gladness.

MORNING BEAUTY.

BRIGHTLY now on every hill

The sun's first rays are beaming,

And dew-drops on each blade of grass

Are in their beauty gleaming.

O'er every hill and every vale

The huntsman's horn is sounding,

And gayly o'er each brook and fence

His noble steed is bounding.

There's beauty in the glorious sun

When high mid heaven 't is shining,

There's beauty in the forest oak

When vines are round it twining;

There's beauty in each flower that blooms,

Each star whose light is glancing

From heaven to earth, as on apace

'T is noiselessly advancing.

Beauties are all around thy path,

And gloriously they're shining;

Nature hath placed them everywhere,

To guard men from repining.

Yet 'mong them all there's naught more fair,

This beauteous earth adorning,

Than the bright beauty gathering round

The early hours of morning.

THE RECOMPENSE OF GOODNESS.

WHEN our hours shall all be numbered,

And the time shall come to die,

When the tear that long hath slumbered

Sparkles in the watcher's eye,

Shall we not look back with pleasure

To the hour when some lone heart,

Of our soul's abundant treasure,

From our bounty took a part?

When the hand of death is resting

On the friend we most do love,

And the spirit fast is hasting

To its holy home above,

Then the memory of each favor

We have given will to us be

Like a full and holy savor,

Bearing blessings rich and free.

O, then, brother, let thy labor

Be to do good while you live,

And to every friend and neighbor

Some kind word and sweet smile give.

Do it, all thy soul revealing,

And within your soul you'll know

How one look of kindly feeling

Cause the tides of love to flow.

BRIDAL SONGS.

TO THE WIFE.

LET a smile illume thy face,

In thy joyous hours;

Look of sympathy be thine,

When the darkness lowers.

He thou lovest movest where

Many trials meet him;

Waiting be when he returns,

Lovingly to greet him.

Though without the world be cold,

Be it thy endeavor

That within thy home is known

Happiness forever.

TO THE HUSBAND.

WHATSOEVER trials rise,

Tempting thee to falter,

Ne'er forget the solemn vows

Taken at the altar.

In thy hours of direst grief,

As in those of gladness,

Minister to her you love,

Dissipate her sadness.

Be to cheer, to bless, to love,

Always your endeavor;

Write upon your heart of hearts

Faithfulness forever.

THE JUG AFLOAT.

"WHAT I tell thee, captain, is sober truth. If thee wishes to prosper, thee must not allow thy sailors grog, lest, when at sea, they become tipsy, and thy ship, running upon hidden rocks, shall be lost; or else, when at the mast-head, giddiness come upon them, and, falling, thy crew shall number one less."

Thus spake a good old Quaker, a native of the city of Penn. Captain Marlin had been for many days and nights considering whether it were best to carry a complement of wine for himself and friends, and grog for his crew. He had that morning met Simon Prim, and asked his opinion, which he gave as above; yet Captain Marlin seemed undetermined. He felt it to be an important question, and he desired to come to a right conclusion.

They had been passing up Broadway; had reached the Trinity, crossing over towards Wall-street. Simon, with his usual gravity, raised his hand, and, pointing to the towering steeple of the splendid edifice, said:

"If thou, neighbor, desired to ascend yonder spire, thinkest thou thou wouldst first drink of thy wine, or thy grog?"

"Certainly not," replied Captain Marlin.

"Then," continued the Quaker, "do not take it to sea with thee; for thou or thy men mayest be called to a spot as high as yonder pinnacle, when thee little thinkest of it."

The two walked down Wall-street without a word from either, till, reaching a shipping-office, Captain Marlin remarked that he had business within. The Quaker very politely bowed, and bade him take heed to good counsel, and good-day.

The owner of the vessel was seated in an arm-chair, reading the shipping news in the Journal.

"Did you know," said he, as his captain entered, "that Parvalance & Co. have lost their ship, 'The Dey of Algiers,' and none were saved but the cabin-boy, and he half dead when found?"

"Indeed not; when-where-how happened it?" inquired Captain Marlin, in some haste.

"On a voyage from Canton, With a rich cargo of silks, satins, teas, &c. The boy says that the men had drank rather too much, and were stupidly drunk,-but fudge! Captain Marlin, you know enough to know that no man would drink too much at sea. He would be sure to keep at a good distance from a state of intoxication, being aware that much was intrusted to his care which he could not well manage whilst in such a state."

"Perhaps so," said Captain Marlin, doubtingly. "Mr. Granton, this touches a question I have been for days considering. It is, whether I shall allow my men grog."

"Of course, of course!" answered the ship-owner; "nothing so good for them round the Cape. You know the winds there, rather tough gales and heavy seas. Cold water there, Mr. Marlin! Why, rather give them hot coffee with ice crumbled in it, or, carry out a cask of ice-cream to refresh them! Man alive, do you think they could live on such vapor? You talk like one who never went to sea, unless to see a cattle-show."

Captain Marlin could not refrain from laughing at such reasoning, yet was more than half inclined to favor it. He was fond of his wine, and being, as such folks generally are, of a good disposition, he wished to see all men enjoy themselves, especially when at sea. He wished evil to no man, and had he thought that liquor might injure any of his crew, he would not that morning, in that office, have come to the conclusion to have it on board the "Tangus."