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Stubbs and his mob of friends stared broadly at the shouting quaker, whose face was inflamed as a setting sun; and as he came nigher to the crowd, his frenzy seemed to work like beer within him — striking baleful and volcanic sparks from his eyes. As it slowly subsided, and Nathan became sufficiently composed to act according to his cloth, they learnt that Ralph Jones, the strange interloper, was actually then getting married indissolubly to Miss Stubbs by parson Dusthead. The announcement caused a sudden sally of the whole force of Solomon's friends toward the parsonage.

They reach it, and with a simultaneous shout, call for Dusthead. No Dusthead appears. They advance to carry the house by storm; and with one gigantic push, the front-door is forced. They ransack the house, and by dint of research, discover Ebenezer Dusthead in an upper chamber — not ready to receive them in martial opposition, unless his night-cap were a helmet - but ensconced quietly in a bed — pale, emaciated, and apparently sick to the core. A thousand pardons are begged in rustic village style, and the assailants withdraw.




IF, a few years after the scenes of the foregoing history occurred, a venturous traveler had passed into Bell-town, casting his eye to the left he might have beheld a neat two-story cottage, with green blinds, and a well-shaven area of grass surrounding it, with three hearty, happy children, full of frolic and fun, capering over it like young colts. Let him enter, and there he would see the mother of those happy ones the identical blooming Aurelia Stubbs.

For a few questions, relative to the simple mystery of this tale, she might reward him with this simple explanation : that she was the lawful wife in wedlock of Ebenezer Dusthead, parson of Bell-town church, on the hill; that she was wedded to him on the day and date of the

hue-and-cry' about his house, by Ralph Jones, aforesaid — a young clergyman who had come from a neighbouring city merely to tie the knot; that Mr. Dusthead's sickness and emaciation were alla pretence; that at the time, she was by his side, while the reverend master Jones was hidden in the cellar, mayhap drinking the spirit' among cidercasks.

Farther, that a squint-eyed news-boy of the village reported that he had seen Nathan Ellwood hanging himself in his barn, which was false; for, as was afterward learnt, Mr. Ellwood was merely hanging a sheep to celebrate the marriage; and that finally Dusthead loved her dearly, dividing his time nicely between the pulpit and her -- and that he often prayed, 'that if he went to heaven, as he truly hoped, he might be allowed to bear his wife under one arm, and his Bible under the other.'

C. M.



"I've heard the spirits of the dead,
May walk again.'


"To die - to sleep -
No more : and, by a sleep, to say we end
The htart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to - 't is a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.'


There are who deem that spirits blest return,

To dwell awhile amid their loved on earth,
Or the fierce tide of human deeds discern

From the calm mansions of their upper birth.
It may be thus; but I would ever pray
That my loved ones in spirit-worlds might stay,
Far from the passion, tumult, strife that mar
And quench the beauty of this lesser star.
And though 't were bliss to sometimes deem them near,

When the heart knows (what heart hath never known ?)
The utter nothingness of all things here:

Seeking its joys in hours forever town,
And in its restlessness would barter all,
One golden moment from the past to call:
Yet then I feel I would not have them see,
Unchanged and pure, or change or sin in me.

There was in Paradise a spirit erst,

So tried and pure that might have happy been,
Had not strange thoughts, with retrospection cursed,

Linger'd too fondly on each vanished scene.
From arch to arch, when choral hymns would roll,
Remember'd voices mid the anthems stole;
When heaven's high towers were bathed in glory sheen,
Her home arose amid its bowers of green ;
And more than heaven, lawns, woodlands, garlands smiled,

And more than angels seemed the inmates fair;
Her bosom's partner and her cherish'd child,

Son of her youth these were the angels there.
Years rolled away, yet years brought no relief,
Nor heavenly joys beguiled of earth-born grief;
Till, with soft pity mov’d, relenting fate
Upon her oped the adamantine gate,
And free to roam, from Paradise she pass’d,
Nor lingering look upon its mansions cast;
And never mortal left the world of pain,
With half the joy that she returned again.

'Twas lingering twilight, such as often gilds
The airy towers which restless fancy builds,
From the soft clouds that at calm evening lie
In golden wreaths along the summer sky.
When the lone spirit reach'd the lofty dome,
Affection's shrine, her happy bridal home.
Invisible she flitted o'er the scene,
Each tree recalling visions that had been,
And might not be. One timid glance she cast,
Then felt oblivion of the present - past
Darkness, and nothingness, and dreamless rest -
The only boon to make the wretched blest;
Unearthly notes like fallen seraph's song
That ere were heard the dewy air along,
Borne from afar upon the breeze's swell,
And these the sounds they seemed to syllable:


'Alas! 't is only buried love

Nor chance nor change can quench or dim;
To me there were no joys above,

For what were heaven away from him?
I deemed that day by day his cheek

Was dew'd with sorrow's burning tears ;
I thought his lips would often speak

The name he has not breathed for years
The name forgotten

- to another
My child was taught to murmur' mother.'


'I thought a single hour beside

His home my widow'd heart would bless;
I came to see a fairer bride

Receive each glance and soft caress.
I thought his love from memory stray'd

To doat upon his boy alone;
I came and children round him play'd,

Who would not thrill to hear my tone,
Nor on that dusty canvass trace
One feature of a mother's face.


'I left my son as pure, and mild,

And gentle, as a seraph blest,
But earth, and sin, and passions wild

Have written wrinkles in his breast.
His little lips would then repeat

Prayer from a heart that had not err'd
And mingled with love's accents sweet

How dear was each imperfect word !
And now, nor prayer, nor mother's name
His thoughts and words one hour can claim.


Mid angel smiles and angel joys

Affection kept its faith unchanged,
The while that perishable toys

Their hearts from all the past estranged.
And what is now that past to me,

Or what, alas ! this cherished scene ?
Since all my agony will be

The thought that I have ever been.
Oh earth farewell! - I could not brook
Again on those changed hearts to look.'

With drooping wing beneath his kindly rod,
The gentle spirit sought again her God,
And there forever poured the love and trust
Which clung too long to animated dust.
Oh deem not, hope not, that the dead can know
Or joy or grief that stir loved breasts below;
A single glance upon a scene like this
Would mar long ages of celestial bliss,
And angels' songs were harsh as words of strife,
If ever blended with the sounds of life.
To see no more cold time affection steal,
And hearts that felt, forget they e'er could feel ;
To learn no more that virtue can decay,
More frail and transient than its shrine of clay;
To never learn the oft repeated lot,
That mortals loved -- and having loved, - forgot;
That vows are words, and holiest ties are riven

To be away from earth, oh this is half of heaven!
Nero-York, June 16th, 1836.

B. D. W.

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"The first ingredient in conversation is TRUTH, the second, GOOD SENSE, the third, GOOD HUMOUR, and the fourth, wit.



pets hob-nailed!

Sir William TEMPLE was an able diplomatist, and a shrewd man; and it is a happy comment upon the principles he has laid down, that he himself lived and died esteemed and respected. The opinions of such a man are well worth examination; and at the hazard of being somewhat didactic, I shall proceed to consider them.

The first ingredient, then, in conversation, says Sir William, is TRUTH. Allow me, however, to remark to you, my good Sir, that truth alone, in conversation, would make but a sorry figure. In society, like an old bachelor who seldom goes abroad, Truth would find himself out of place. He would be continually calling up blushes, and tread

, ing on toes. He would horrify a dowager with the phrase, Madam, how awful you are looking to-day!' and stagger a high-headed aristocrat, with, 'Sir, I am sorry to learn on 'change that you stopped payment yesterday!' No, no — truth, though the best, is the hardest ingredient in conversation, and requires a burnisher. Your bachelor must be married. Be assured, Sir William, truth cannot live happily, and hold up his head in the world, unless he has some delicate hand to plait his ruffles, and brush his coat. Truth is too apt to go upon car

I say, Sir William, truth must be married — or, in plain terms, instead of forming the first ingredient in conversation, he will infallibly be voted out of the polite circles. I am glad to find you

second my opinion. Truth cannot fail to be satisfied with Good SENSE, and Good Sense has always been an admirer of Truth. She will form the best help-mate to him in the world. Let us bring them together, and there they are !

, So, now that we have united them, it is the pleasantest thing in the world to see them moving arm in arm together in a reformed and fashionable assembly. Observe how carefully Truth looks into the eye of his partner, as the words fall from his lips, to which a host of listening admirers pay deference, and how quietly he submits to her guidance and direction. His step is confidence, and his voice is wisdom. And with what amiable and graceful languror, Good Sense bears upon the arm of her husband, while she regulates and controls him! She is the admired by all admirers, but the language of adulation does not reach her; she hears no voice but that of her husband. But list! There are whispers around, and Scandal never spoke more truly. From the one side comes the exclamation, · And is it not Good Sense that renders Truth so engaging ?! From the other, ' And does not Good Sense derive her beauty and her grace from Truth, her husband ?'

Truth and Good Sense, then, Sir William, are very well mated. They move very happily together, and let them not be sundered.

Now come we to Good Humor. Ah, there he sits, with a face radiant with smiles, and with a brood of riotons children, clambering upon his knee, or thrusting their hands in his pockets. And now his chair gives way, and, with a burst of laughter, he falls prostrate on the


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carpet, while the urchins only clamber upon him more thickly, and make jest of his misfortune. Anon he rises, and with a face covered with blushes, looks around him. Truth ceases from converse for awhile; Good Sense reprovingly shakes her fan at him, and lo! a wild and gaily-bedecked youngster, with glancing eye, and curling lip, and ever-varying features, thrusts himself forward, and excites the mirth of the assemblage by wild and reckless raillery. Fainter and fainter grows the smile


the cheek of the unfortunate Good Humor, and yet again it rekindles, as he meets the encouraging look of Good Sense, whose hand rests kindly upon his shoulder. Wit, baffled, turns petulantly aside to seek another object, and as he speaks, the crowd fearfully listen and applaud — rejoice when he is not near, and yet turn themselves again to listen to his biting satire, and merry inspiration. And now behold his sparkling and excited features at every turning, and listen to the lively sallies that fall from his tongue! He evidently believes himself to be first in the gay company. Fie, fie, Sir William,

, who is greater than Wit? What ingredient is before wit in conversation? And see, he approaches the circle which is listening to the accents of Truth, or courting the mild influences of Good Sense, and the sunshine of Good Humor. He throws in their midst a merry and thoughtless jibe, which breaks discordantly upon their converse. Even Good Humor frowns, Good Sense looks appealingly to her husband, and Truth turns sternly toward the derisive intruder.

But whence comes the change! A word only has fallen from Truth, and the color has left the eye, and the tongue of Wit is palsied; his head is drooping, and the insignia of happiness has passed from his cheek. Alas! every wanton shaft which his hand has aimed, seems to be turned inward upon his own soul. He has heard for the first time the voice of Truth. He has felt for the first time the influence of Good Sense. In his confusion, he would fly, yet he knows not whither; and he sinks in tears upon the shoulder of the sympathizing and all-forgiving Good Humor.

Here, then, my good Sir William, we leave the characters of the little conversation-party which we have contrived to conjure up, to support the truths of your proposition. In conversation, let Truth seek an alliance with Good Sense, let Good Sense lay her head upon the shoulder of Good Humor, and let Wit, feeling itself the weakest of the band, rest upon Good Humor for support, and wisdom, and peace, and joy, and mirth will form the electric chain of the social circle, which shall be broken by no rude shock, nor fail through any intrinsic weakness.

C. P. Hempstead, (L. 1.,) May, 1836.


Oh doubt not that I love thee yet!

Come to this heart's deep sea -
Thou 'lt find its stilly current set

With images of thee :
Affection shall survive all change -
The life-boat 'scaped the tempest's range.



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