VOLUME XVI.
Tie Lonely Heart.
They tell um I am happy, and I try to think it
true;
They say I have no cause to weep, my sorrows
are so few;
That in the wilderness we tread, mine is a favor
ed lot,
My petty griefs are phantacies, would I but heed
them not.
It mat be so: the cup of life has many a bitter
draught,
And those who drink with silent lips, have smiled
on while they quaffed;
It may be so: I cannot tell what others bate to
bear,
But sorry would I be to give another heart my
share.
They bid the to a festive board, I go a smiling
guest; •
Their language and their revelry are torture to
my breast;
They call fur music, and their comes some old fa
miliar strain;
I dash away the starting tear, and turn and smile
again.
But oh! my heart is wandering back to my fath
or's home—
Back to my sisters at their play, the meadows in
their bloom,
The blackbird on the scented thorn, the murmer
ing of the stream—
The sounds upon the evening wind, like voices in
a dream—
The watchful eyes that nevermore shall gaze up
on my brow—
The smiles—Oh! cease that melody, I cannot bear
it now!
And heed not when the stranger sighs, nor mark
the tears that start,
There can be no companionship for lonelinesS of
heart;
A Song of Life:
BY CHARLES MACKAY,
A traveller through a dusty road,
Strewed scents on the lea,
And one took root and sprouted up,
And grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening time,
To breath its early vows;
And Age was pleased at heat of noon
To bask beneath its boughs;
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,
The birds sweet music . bore,
It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore.
A little spring had lost its way,
Amid the grass and fern,
A passing stranger scooped a well
Where weary men might turn;
He wall'd it in, and hung with care
A ladle at the brink—
He though not of the deed he did,
But judged that toil might drink.
Ho passed again!—and lo! the well
By summers never dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parched tongues ;
And saved a life beside:
A dreamer dropp'd a random thought,
'Twits old, and yet was now—
A simple fancy of the brain,
But strong in being true,
It shone upon a genial mind,
And, lo! its light became
A lamp of life, a beacon ray,
• A monitory flame.
The thought was small—ils issue great,
A watch-tire on the hill,'
It sheds its rudienee far adown,
And cheers the valley still.
A nameless man, amid a crowd
That thronged the daily mart,
Let fall a word of Hope and Lovo,
Unstudied, front thy - heart;
A whisper on the tumult thrown—
A transitory breath—
It raised a brother from the dust,
It saved a soul from death.
germ! 0 fount! 0 work 'ciflove!
•0 thought at random cast
Yu were but little at the first,
But mighty at the last.
The Poor Man to his Son.
Lr itiAzA. COOK.
Work, work, my boy, be not afraid,
Look labor boldly in the face;
Take up the hammer a• the spade,
And blush not for your humble place,
Hold. up your brow in honest pride,
Tho' rough and swarth your hands may be; .
Such hands are sap-veins that provide
The life-blood of the station's. tree.
There's honor in the toiling part,
That Linda Uti iu the furrowed fields;
It stamps a crest upon the heart
Worth more than all your quartered shields.
Work, work, my boy, and murmur not,
The fustian garb betrays no shame;
The grim of forge-soot leaves no shame,
And labor gilds the meanest Mime.
And man is never half so blest,
As when the busy day is spent,
So as to make his evening rest.
A holiday of glad content.
God grant thee hut a duo reward,
A guerdon portion thir and just,
And then ne'er think thy station hard,
But work, my boy, work, hope and trust!
Go IT Boomst—A Mrs. Boots, of this State,
has left her husband, Mr. Boots, and strayed to
parts unknown. We presume that a pair of boots
are rights and lefts. We cannot say, however,
that Mrs. Boots is right, but there is no mistake
that Boots is le/t.
A HumuLE Hoag.—Are you not surprised to
find how independent of money peace of cou
seine° is, and how much happiness can be con
densed into the humblest home? A cottage will
not hold the bulky furniture and sumptuous ac
commodations or a mansion; but if Gud be there,
a cottage will hold as much happiness as might
stock a palace.—Rae. Amos Hamilton. '
~7 ' IT6,
1,)0
AN ANTEDILUVIAN ROMANCE,
Mortals saw without surprise,-
Iu 'the mid air, angelic eyes.
In those far-away times, when the Mammoth
shook the ground with mighty tread, and ere the
solitary dove fluttered over the waste of waters,
vainly seeking re , t, and finding none, there dwelt
upon the earth, a fair woman, with two beautiful
young daueters, whose reifies were Adith and
Nemeth Their home nestled in the bosom of a
fertile valley, where bright fountains leaped and
sparkled in the undimmed sunshine—where floods
of delicious roses wafted faint odors on the balmy
air—where cedars frowned in towering grandeur,
and the dark funeral cypress scarce revealed the
azure skies between. White tents glanced on
the distant plains; flocks and herds pastured there;
and the moon arose in calm radiance from behind
the green swelling hills—those hills from whence
celestial melodies were softly heard to float,.
from Whence favored mortals often heard strange
wild echoes us of voices whispering to each other
—beheld shining meteors dart—traced them dis
solving away in the silvery light, bounding the
clear horizon, or with mute awe, watched their
downward shooting to the transparent lake, hid
den amid mountain solitudes; deep, mysterious
waters, on whose pure bosom reposed inntunera-
Isle wan lotus-lilios, dim and dream-like flower
over which angels loved to hover and disport in
the holy moonlight. Gems of night; blessed and
beautiful lotus' lilies!
In those days, noble young damsels brought wa
ter from the pellucid fountains, and rested pleas
antly in the refreshing shade beneath spreading
boughs, and thither came Adah and Naamah to
fill their vases. Wreaths of fresh green leaves
encircled their brows; light snowy drapery, looped
up, revealed the round alahaster limbs, and deli
cate feet, protected by richly embroidered sandals.
They were twin sisters, alike, yet dissimilar.
Adult, seen alone, would have been pronounced
one of earth's loveliest daughters: but Naninah, a
wandering angel, with paradise airs yet breath
ing round her the tender halo of a subdued mel
ancholy, as if she lamented absence from her star
ry home.
"What meaneth that ancient womma" whis
pored Adah to her sister, as they rested their wit
ter-vases on the emerald turf. "What mcaneth
she? I overheard her to-day in converse with our
mother, beneath the cedar dome, bewailing the
doomed one, and methought thy name, sweet
Nimmah, was murmured. Our mother smiled,
and I thing myself into her dear arms, and asked
the meaning of those words I had thus unwitting
ly given ear to. The woman of a hundred stun
tmen raised her hands as if in prayer; our mother
knelt beside her, and I cared nut to press my ques
tioning."
"Would I were like thee my sister Adah!" res
ponded Naamah with a sigh—"would I were like
thee, with earthly affections garnered within my
throbbing heart! Thou alone knowest—yet
but in part—how I have ever felt estranged from
worldly sympathies. Harken, Ada and I will
now conll2ss that I divine the fate, and know the
tale, thOti in thy innocent simplicity &earnest not
of. The woman of a hundred summers bewailed
the doomed one, ye say? High and glorious doom!
—oh! that it may be mine! Snatches of whisper
ed eommunings, murmurings, wild melodies, and
prophetic teachings, have revealed the mystery to
me—wondrous and enthralling! Thou weal our
mother, hew beautiful she is—how holy, pure, and
noble: thou host often marked the peculiar tender
ness which floated: as a transparent veil around
her. Her mother was far more beautiful; and,
they say, Adah—(thoU knowest I have 'not
vani
ty)—that I bear perfect resemblance to our an
cestrcss."
"Dearest Neamald" exclaimed Adah, embra•
sing her sister, "what human words may paim
thy loveliness? Only let us cease not to remcm•
bee whose hand fashioneth the clay. Dist contin•
ue thy speech, for Ima impatient to hear thy re.
vealment."
Naamah sighed, as if overwhelmed with the im
mensity of the theme; and in a low voice obeyed
her compunion,
't A shining meteor—otherwise, a paradise an
gel—wandering over the silent earth, one starry
night, folded his glittering wings, and rested be
side our beloved waters, in the mountain solitudes.
On the banks of the moonlit lake also roved our
ancestress—pure and beautiful as the lotus-lilies.
Tim angel encountered this fair daughter of men:'
loved, wooed, and would have won, but that she
was previously betrothed. Her marriage was
hastened by her terrified sire, to avert the curse,
even said to rest on angel love for mortal wo
man! But, alas! Adah, an angel's kiss had
been imprinted on that woman's lips—an angel's
sparkling tires have Rung around her, and within
her soul, their unspeakable, pervading essence.—
Invisibly, that disappointed, love-lorn celestial
one hovered about her path through life, received
her parting spirit, and bore it to heaven's gate,—
hath ever watched our mother; and watches over
Adah—our guardian spirit ! Changeless aro
the Sons of paradise—ever blooming, ever young
years with us, bin days with them—nay moments
of eternity ! On me, Adult—on me, this angel's
regards will once again be fixed. I out doomed
to be his bride ! Night after night, when thou
art sleeping, I wander away to the mountain soli
tudes, beside the lotiely lake.
"I feel the fanning wings of invisible spirits.—
I hear their dulcet songs of bliss ; and I know that
angel eyes are gazing; and I weary—oh ! I weary
for my spirit-love to come and claim me as his
own ! For never, (mark me, Adab, my sister,)
never shall mortal man call me bride !"
HUNTINGDON, PA., THURSDAY, MAY 8, 1851:
Time glided on. Adah was married to one of
the young nobles of Lebanon; but in her distant,
happy home, her affectionate heart yearned to
wards her twin-sister. Still Namnah wandered
in search of her angel-lover; earthly suitors were
dismissed; she turned coldly and disdainfully from
them all.
LOVES Or TUE ANGELS.
It was on a night of singular beauty, even in
that favored clime; dila Nammth, pale and lan
guid, rested on the banks of the haunted lake, like
a slanting Moonbeam, white and pure; her rich
voice poured forth strains of melody, such as -can
not be imagined now, on this changed earth.
Suddenly, there stood by her side a youth,
apparently travel-worn, and fatigued with long
lounging 5 his voice was deep and thrilling;, his
demeanor was high, courteous, and noble; while
the halo of ghand and pre-eminent intellectual
beauty shone in his dark eyes, and illuminated his
thoUghtful coat] tepante.
"Long-loved—long-sought-for—found at last!"
he exclaimed, casting himself on his knees before
the agitated Naamah, and pouring forth those ar
dent words she had so long pined to hear.
Could she doubt that her angel-lover had thus
sought her side at length, not in brightness and
glory, indeed, but in plain earthly guise—in pity
to her weak mortal senses i
Could she not discover the inetlitble perfections
—the immortal essence? Could they be hidden
from her? Ah ! no; Naamah had not a doubt;
and to her mother's dwelling she led the graceful
youth, where the stranger and way-toter were
sure to find a ready welcome.
The woman of a hundred summers exchanged
mysterious glances with the tender mother, who
silently watched the enamoured pair.
When OIL the seine spot where he had first
found her, at the same hour, the wanderer de
manded Of Naamah, in the trembling voice of truo
love, if she would leave her mother's side, and
ler own people, to follow him, what replied she?
'Long-loved—long-sought-for—found at last—
am thine.'
Tu a distant, brilliant home, the beautful Naa
malt was conducted by her husband. And where
the precious gems of earth were sparkling—where
all the untold glories of the world shone around
her, seated on a golden throne, costly incense
burning, peerless flowers strewed beneath her feet,
and paradise opening before her in the dark eyes
whose light she lived in, Natamah learnt that to
mortal love she had devoted her existence—plight
ed her faith: Thnt the wandering spirit of the
haunted lake, who had sought her by the lotus
lilies, was the brother of Adah's husband—Adah,
who had dwelt on her sister's loveliness, until, as
the youthful prince listened to her description, he
yearned to behold it for hihiself, and set forth on
his adventurous expeditiou, nlinost tempted to
believe that he had discovered an angel beside the
solitary mountain-lake, when personating one.
An earthly throne Naamah gained—a mortal
heart's fond devotion; but there were whisperers
on the Lebanon to hint that she revered her ear
ly dreams, and cherished, with somewhat of sad
dened momory, the illusions of the past.
The Bur has long been crowded with aspirants,
of every degree of calibre 'and qualifications. It I
is extremely pleasant to gaze on the hill of fame
and to imagine one's self standing on its summit,
admired and envied by the gazers below. How
few, comparatively, realize their dreams. Years
pass on without adding reputation or practice to
one hull of the Bar, who, in desinto of manifest
failure, from incompetency on their part, or from
adverse causes, still persist in the vain contest,—
Happily, another and more judicious direction is
about to be given to the public mind ou this sub
ject. The New York Mirror well remarks.
The Bar is no longer the resort of the ambitious
youth of our country. The mechanic departments
are being preferred; there are now thirty young
gentlemen in this city, that have received liberal
educations, who are serving their "times," as
shipwrights, architects, carpenters, &c. In a few
years, the United States will have the most ae
coinplished mechanics in the world: A new class
is springing up, who will put the present race of
mechanics in the shade. The union of a substan
tial education with mechanical skill, will abet
this. Indeed, alreadj , we could name some me
chanics, who are excellent inathematicians, ac
quainted with French and German, and able to
study the Books in those languages connected
with their vocations. Heretofore fond ththers
were wont to educate their sons as doctors or law
yers, to insure their respectibility and success.—
That day is passed. Mechanics will now take the
lead, and in a Jew years will supply the large por
tion of the State and Federal Government.
Of course you can. You show it in your
looks, in your motion, in your speech, in your
everything. I ens! A brave, hearty, substantial,
soulful, manly, cheering expression. There is
character, force, vigor, determination, will, in it.
We like it. The words have a spirit, sparkle, pun
gency, flavor, geniality, about them which takes
one in the very right place.
I cash There is a world of meaning expressed,
nailed down, epigramised, rammed into these few
letters. Whole sermons of solid-ground virtues.
How we more than admire to hoar the young man
speak it out bravely, boldly, determinedly; as
though it was an outreaching, et his entire nature,
a reflection of his inner soul. It tells of some
thing that is earnest, sober, serious; of something
that will battle the race, and tumble with the
world in a way that will open and brighten and
mellow men's eyes.
rcan: What spirit, purpose, intensity, reality,
Law 'and Mechanics.
"I CAN.,'
power and praise. It is a strong arm, a stout
heart, a bold eye, a firm port, an indomitable will.
We never knew a man, possessed of its energy,
vitality, fire, and light, that did not attain emi
nence of some sort. It could not be otherwise.
It, is in the nature, constitution, order, necessity,
inevitable of events that it should be so. I can!
rightly, truly said, and then clinched and riveted
by the manly, heroic, determined deed, is the se
cret solution, philosophy of men's liens. They
took I can for a motto, and went forth, and stead
ily made themselves and the world what they
pleased.
Theu young nice, if you would be something
besides common, dusty, prosy, Wayfiwer in life,
just put these magic words upon your lips, and
their musing, hopeful, expanding philosophy in
your hearts and arms. Do it and you are made
men.
The Book of Nature:
"Forth in the pleasing Spring, thy bounty walks
Tby tenderness and love. Fragrant the meads,
The softening air is balm, and every abuse
Awl every heart is joy."
Again we are greeted by the opening spring.
The great book of Nature will soon present to our
view, on landscape, hill and plain, renewed evi
dence of an ever present and wonder working
God. At the voice of his word the fresh foliage
bedecks the dreary forest—the brown and frosted
earth puts on her robe of green, the garden and
the orchard display their varied hoes, and'"Life
revisits dying worms and spreads the joyful in
sects wing." *ho can behold the beauties of
Spring without emotions of delight and gratitude.
Dwellers in the country, however bumble may be
your quiet homes, ye will not surely in the spring
Jin; sigh for city life. ' Though so often yo have
seen the king of day descend 'neath the mountain
range, ushering in the twilight, as his last faint
rays fadedl from the hill tops, ye would not change
the view fur a city sun-set, where brick walls or
towering masts hide all or half its beauties—you
would cot change the stillness that at this hotir so
oft invites to thought, to prayer, to praise, for the
bustle and din and ever restless rush of a crowded
mart—ye would not withdraw from before your
oft feasted eye, the thousand objects teeming with
life, that point you ever from Nature up to Na.
tare's God—and put in their place a mass of hu
man thrms, inanimate piles of brick and granite,
shaped by man's device for human habitations.
0. no—the city eon give no equivalent for the
beauties of the varied landscape,—the fresh moun
tain breeze, the rich hues and sweet odors of ad
vancing spring.
Ye who arc parents, blessed with a quiet home
and daily competence, in the work of unfolding
and training the infant's intellect, with how much
ease can ye teach from Nature's open book when
the Spring is revealing its treasures! What
though your tinily lot be one of toil, ever and anon
there are moments of comparative leisure when
the moral and mental wants of the prattlers at i •
your side may be satisfied without the stimulus of
unhealthful excitement—wish nut fur them the
atmosphere of the city—be thankful that the lines
have fallen to you and to them in pleasant places
I—for the restless desire to exchange countrtfor
city life has brought to many a bosom the writh
, ing anguish of despair.
Christian parents and Christian children may
seek the city to find wide
,fields of ustfulnesO, if
that be their highest motive—they may also seek
it to learn the world, as they would journey well
guarded, to leant by observation the geography of
I a strange country; but let them. not seek it fur
increased personal enjoyment, for the hope of
gain, or love of change—for they will find noth
ing in cities to compensate fur the loss of rural
scenes, and healthful pursuits; innocent pleasures
and free access to the great book of Nature—to
the melody of birds, and flowing streams, the fi
lent beauty of the star-lit sky—or the sweets of
I undisturbed Sabbath meditation on the unseen re
alities of that country towards which we are ever
I hastening with the rapidity of Time.—N. Y
I vocate.
Wife—Mistress—Lady.
Who marries from love takes a wife; who mar
ries for the sake of convenience takes a mistress;
who marries from consideration takes a lady. You
aro loved by your wife, regarded by your mistress,
tolerated by your lady. You have a wile for
yourself, a mistress for your house and its friends,
a lady for the world. Your wife will agree with
you, your mistress will accommodate you, your
lady will manage you. Your wife will take care
of your household, your mistress of your house,
'your lady of appearances. If you are sick, your
wife will nurse you, your mistress will visit you,
and your lady will enquire after your health. You
take a walk with your wife, a ride with your mis.
trees, and join parties with your lady. Your wife
will share your grief, your mistress your money,
and your lady your debts. If you aro dead your
with will shod tears, your mistress lament, and
your lady wear mourning. A your atter your
death marries again your with, in six months your
mistress, and in six weeks, or sooner, when
mourning is over, your lady.
gulf the Spring put forth no blossoms, in
Summer there will he no beauty, and in Autumn
no fruit—so, if youth be trifled away Without im
provement, riper years will be contemptible and
old age miserable.
(Felt is said that Gov. Bell, of Texas, who re•
ccntly quoted Shakspeares "Winter of our dia•
content," is no relative of
"The church-going Bell,"
spoken of by Cowper in ono dills poems.
( 4)
tintitttir
f.7&
Another Speech from Webster.
The fallowing speech was delivered by the Hen.
Daniel Webster, hi float ef the Revere House, in
Boston, after the aurhorities of the city refused
im Funieul Ilall.
Ftt.Low-min:Ns OF BOSTON: -You rather
take me by surprise this morning—but it is a very
agreeable surprise. lam as much pleased to see
your cheerful and satisfied faces, us I am to see
again the face of that luminary which shines out
from the heavens above us; and if gentlemen, you
are half as glad to see me as I am to meet you,
there is at this moment a great quantity of happi
ness and good feeling in flowdion Square. (Ap-
plausb.)
Gentlemen, a long and violent convulsion of the
elements has passed away, and the heavens and
the skies smile upon us. 'There is often on anal
ogy between oecurenees in the natural world,
and sonic times political agitations pass away,
bringing after them sunshine, joy and gladness.
May it be so now. I greet you as citizens ofßos
' ton; I welcome you, I offer you my heart and
laud with the deepest gratitude for what you and
your fathers have done for me, from the days of
my early manhbod, when I came front the North
to throw myself nntoug you, to partake of your
fortunes, for good or evil, to the end of my life.
I urn not vain enough to suppose, fellow-citizens
that I have dune any essential service to my 'coun
try in my clay and generation. If I have so done,
however little, or however much it may be, I owe
it mainly to the constant, the warm unwavering
friendship and support of the people of Boston. I
am bound sic way of all the earth. I shall ere
long follow yon• fathers to my last home. But
while I live and breathe, while my heart beats or
my tongue moves, I shall feel and I shall speak of
Boston, as the cherished objects of my public, po
litical, 1 may say, friendly regard. •
Gentlemen, you do not expect to hear from mo
to-day any discourse. I come to see you, and you
come to see mo. It is not an occasion for the
discussibn of any political topics. YOu do not
expect me to detain you from your affairs, while
I rehearse any opinions of my own, or state the
grounds of those opinions. But let me congrat
ulate you, and let me ask you to congratulate use,
that the events of the last year or two have placed
us under better auspices. We see clearer, we
breathe freer, we feel a new assurance that our
political institutions, the rich blessings and inheri
tance which we derive from our ththers, Will en
dure, perpetual, be ;noisome', if any institution of
man on earth can be immortal.
Yes, fellow-citizens, the youngest of your chil
dren, the youngest of your grand children, will
grow up to manhood, in the proud feeling that
they aro born to an inheritance of imperishable
liberty in these United States of North America,
and in this ancient and beloved—l say beloved, and
to kalways venerated, under all circumstances—
beloved and venerated Commonwealth of Massa
chusetts,
Why, fellow citizens, we need not be Vain, we
need not be too much self-satisfied, but after all
who is there among you at this moment that would
exchange his political and social condition for that
which befols the inhabitants or the resident of any
other country under the wide scope of the canopy
which is over us? Where would you go with
satisfaction? You would stay under• the institu
tions of your country with satisfaction; you would
enjoy that political power which is so universally
disseminated on popular principles, with satisfac
tion and gratification. Fur here every citizen
feels he is a man. If he is one of the governed,
he is also one of the governors, and he has a
voice its every transaction of public policy and ea
. tional concern. Let others say what they will;
prefer a more royal a more despotic, or a more
democratic form of government; fur myself, and
I believe I may speak for you, we are satisfied
with our condition, as people of the United btates
and citizens of Massachusetts—living nude• a free,
popular and gloriouS representative government,
which makes us known favorably all over the
Gentlemen, let us despair of nothiug in behalf
of our country. We see it growing in prosperity.
We shall see that the returning sense of the com
munity, the great principle of love of liberty—and,
we might add, and I would add with all the em
phasis that I can pour out of my heart—the love
of Union will keep us together. (Applause.) If
I had ten thousand voices, if I could speak so as
to be heard on the shores of the Pacific, if I could
gather around me the whole of this vast nation,
I would say fellow-citizens, union, UNION,
UNION, now and forever! (Great cheering.)—
What are all these petty distinctions, and section
al quarrels.—They are not the dust in the bal
ance. They are not fit to inhabit the heart of a
true American, for the heart of a true American
embraces his whole country, and if it is not big
enough for that he had better tear it out and
throw it flora his bosom. (Applause.) I have
said gentlemen, that the little I have done, if I
have done anything for good, is attributable
to the support which you and your brothers and
your fathers have given me here in the city of
Boston, I sin nut ungrateful for it, As I have
found you in times past I find you now, and I am
sure I shall continue to find you; and let me say
to you, let me entreat you this day to deliver to
your children what 1 say—that as Boston found
me thrity years ago she finds me to-day, without
variation or the shadow of change—and I shall go
to my grave full of gratitude which I cherish for
her and her support of toe in my political course
thus fur through life. (Applause.)
Gentlemen, I bid you an affectionate adieu.—
By the blessing of God I shall see you again un
der circumstances, it may be, that will enable me
NUMBER 18.
to express somewhat at large my opinions upon
the present state of things in this country.—
(Cheers, and cries of 'good,' good.') All this,
gentlemen, is in the hands of that Providencti
which is over us. To him I commend myself, I
commend you, and I commend all the great inter
ests of our own dearly beloved country. Gentle
men, farewell:
Loud cheers for Mr. Webster, the Constitution
and the Union, followed the conclusion of Mr.
Webster's remarks, while from the windows above
and around him bouquets fell upon him from the
hands of fair women, who occupied them. This
mark of apposed on the part of his fair hearers
drew from Mr. Webster the remark, "The ladies,
God bless theta, they are all for the Union."--
Mr. Webster then retired to his rooms accompan
ied by the Committee; and the gathering disper-
From the Knickerbocker Magazine.
A Dying Wife to her Husband,
The following most touching fragment of a let
ter front a dying with to her husband, was found
by him, sumo months after her death, between the
leaves of a religious volume, which she was very
fund of perusing. The letter which was litterly
dim with tear marks, was mitten long before the
hushand was aware that the grasp of a fatal dis
ease had fastened upon the lovely form of his
wife, who died at the early age of nineteen:
"When this shall reach yoar eye, dear G—,
some day when you are turning over the relics of
the past, I shall have passed away forever, and
the cold white stone will ha keeping its lonely
watch over the lips you have so often pressed, and
the sod will be growing green that shall hide for
ever from your sight the dust of one who has so
,pften nestled close to your warm heart. For ma•
ny long and sleepless nights, when all my thoughts,
were at rest, I have wrestled with the conscious
ness of approaehing death, until at last it has
forced itself upon my mind; and although to you
and to others it might now seem but the nervoda
immaginations of a girl, yet, dear G—, it is so!
Many weary hours have I paSsed in the endeavor
to reconcile myself to leaving yoti, whom I love
so well, and this bright world of sunshine and
beauty; and hard indeed. is it to struggle on si
lently and alone, with the sure conviction that I
am about to leave all forever,' and go down alone
into the dark valley:—.But I know iu whom I
have trusted,' and leaning upon His arm, fear
no evil.'—Don't blame me for keeping even all
this from you. How could I subject you of all
others, to such sorrow as I feel at parting, when
titue will so soon make it apparent to youl I
could have wished to live, if only to be at your
aide when your time shall come, Wipe the death
damps from your brow, and usher your departing
spirit into its Maker's presence, embalmed in wo
man's holiest prayer. But it is not to be so—and
I submit.
Yours is the privilege of watching, through
long and dreary slights, for the spirits final flight,
and of transferring my sinking head from your
breast to my Saviour's bosom—And you shall
share my last thought; the last faint pressure of
the band, and the last feeble kiss shall be yours;
and even when flesh and heart shall have failed
I me, my eye shall rest upon yours until glazed by
death—and our spirits shall hold one last fond
communion, until gently fading from my view—
the last of eswth—yon shall Mingle with the flist
bright glimpses of the unfisding glories of that bet
ter world, where partings are unknown. Well do
I know the spot, dear G—, where you will lay
me; often have we stood by the place, and as we
watched the mellow sunset as it glanced in quiv
ering flashes through the leaves and burnished
the grassy mounds around us with stripes of
bright gold, each perhaps has thought that one of
us would come alone; and Whichever it might be,
your name would be on the stone. But you loved
the spot; and I know you'll love me none the less
when you see the same quiet sunlight linger and
play among the grass that grows over your Ma- .
ry's grave. I know you'll go often alone there,
when I an, laid there, and my spirit will be with
you then, and whisper among the waving branches,
"I am not lost but gone before ! "
Soliloquy.
Can't get along so, and yet doing as much busi
ness as I did twenty years ago! Then I saved
money—now I'm spending it; absolutely going
behind-hand every season! What's the difficulty?
Profits are reduced, whilst rents and taxes, and
expenses arc increased! What shall I dol It's
plain! I must do more business—multiply my
profitS by increasing the number of my customers.
How shall I get morn customers? By giving in
formation to a greater number of people, and in
viting their custom. How? As other people do—
through the newspapers, cards, handbills, &c.
In short, I must advertise or quit business.—As
there is no other remedy I will make a virtue of
necessity. I'll advertise. I will!
FAMILY DEvoriort.—lt is a beautiful thing to
behold a family at their devotions. Who would
not be moved by the tea'• that trembles in the
mother's eye, as she looks to Heaven, and pours
forth her fervent supplications for the welfare of
her children? Who can look with indifference
upon the venerable father, surrounded by his fam
ily, with his uncovered locks, kneeling in the pees
once of Almighty God, and praying for their hap
piness and prosperity? In whose bosom is not
awakened fin, finest feelings on beholding a ten
der child, in the beauty of itB innocence, folding
its little hands in prayer, and imploring the invis
' ible, yet eternal Father, to bless its parents its
brothers and sisters, and its playmates/