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.