disappointment! What is the man, and what might he be! The very body, with its fine organization, with its wonderful workmanship, groans and sickens, when it is made the instrument of base indulgence! The spirit sighs, in its secret places, over its meanness, its treachery, and dishonor! There is a nobler mind, in the degraded body, that retires within itself, and will not look through the dimmed eye, and will not shine in the bloated and stolid countenance; there is a holier conscience, that will not strengthen the arm that is stretched out to defraud; but sometimes makes that arm tremble with its paralyzing touch, and sometimes shakes, as with thunder, the whole soul of the guilty transgressor. Take heart, poor sinner! thou weak brother of humanity! Be up and be a man; let not thy despair drive thee deeper still in guilt! Thou hast been sorely tried, but not for nothing. Not always shall it be so; not always shall thy body weigh down thy mind. Thou hast a soul, 1 know thou hast; I see it by thy tears; I hear it in thy groans. Suffer thou must. Thou hast voluntary sins to atone for, perhaps, by ages of repentence. Thou must climb to heaven, ever more hard to attain than any human eminence. Believe not thou shalt always sleep in death! With these views and this belief, we read the history of the seventh and final age without disgust. This wasting and wearing out of the body seems the natural way of passing from this world to the next. It seems a beneficent order of Providence, to rob death of its terrors. Were our lives better, our passions and appetites under better control, there is little doubt but that men generally would die in this way. They would pass as the flowers fade, leaf by leaf; as the stars go out. This gradual decay is the course of all nature. There is nothing harsh and abrupt in the workings of God. If we outrage his rules, we suffer the penalty. The careless and too indulgent mother robs her child of life, and cuts her own heart; the sensualist, the inordinately ambitious, the schemer in diets and medicines, all pay the forfeit of their folly.t We are losing the moral influences of the 'seventh age.' We rarely see it. Most corpses have teeth. Rare is the sight of a venerable old man. So obsolete has he become, that the dress peculiar to him It is out of fashion, because there is nobody to is out of date, too. * Rev. ORVILLE DEWEY. + His et talibus rationibus adductus, Socrates nec patronum quæsivit ad judicium capitis, nec judicibus supplex fuit; adhibuitque liberam contumaciam, a magnitudine animi ductam, non a superbia. Et supremo vitæ die, de hoc ipso multa disseruit, et paucis ante diebus, cum facile posset educi e custodia, noluit ; et cum pæne in manu jam mortiferum illud teneret poculum, locutus ita est, ut non ad mortem trudi, verum in cælum videretur ascendere. Ita enim censebat itaque disseruit: 'Duas esse vias duplicesque cursus animorum a corpore excedentium. Nam qui se humanis vitiis contaminavissent, et se totos libidinibus dedidissent, quibus cæcati; vel domesticis vitiis atque flagitiis se inquinavissent; vel republica violanda fraudes inexpiabiles concepissent; iis devium quoddam iter esse, seclusum a concilio deorum. Qui autem se integros castosque servavissent; quibusque fuisset minima cum corporibus contagio, seseque ab his semper sevocassent; essentque in corporibus humanis vitam imitati deorum ; his ad illos a quibus essent profecti, reditum facilem patere.' Itaque commemorat, ut cygni (qui non sine causa Apolloni dicati sint, sed quod ab eo divinationem habere videantur quâ providentes quid in morte boni sit,) cum cantu et voluptate moriantur; sic omnibus et bonis et doctis esse faciendum.' CICERONIS TUSCULANE QUES. wear it. Oh, for the age of old men! How few know they had grand-fathers, except by reading tomb-stones! Along with the infant in his nurse's arms,' and the school boy with his satchel,' along with the 'lover,' the 'soldier,' the 'justice,' and the age of retrospection, we would see the seventh age,' that' second childishness,' in which nature prepares the body for dissolution a passing without pain or regret. We should love to minister to its wants, to alleviate its pains; to smooth the pillow of the white-haired old man, and to dress those silver locks, which have an infant delicacy and softness; to place his chair in the comfortable nook, and adjust the footstool for his feeble limbs. It is when our fathers have passed into the seventh age, that we can repay them, in kind, for their care of our infancy. And it is a remarkable fact in natural history, that, by the course of nature, the parent never grows helpless, until the offspring has acquired strength sufficient to support its feebleness; a fact which teaches us our obligation to the old. How well the old and young look, side by side! But the most pleasing picture of our relations, is to see an aged and infirm parent, once the strength and vigor of his fellows, leaning on the arm of his son, now in the prime of life, the full promise of his manhood, relying on the strength, confiding in the virtue, and trusting to the character, he himself helped to form, by instruction, counsel, and reproof; looking and feeling happy, and proud of his faithful parentage, and so rewarded for his stewardship. There are gratitude, good sense, good taste, and religion, in such a sight. This chapter of Shakspeare's history is short; and, indeed, little but the bare fact ought to be stated. The life of the mind, for this world, was finished in the 'sixth age.' We close our readings, for the book is ended. Let our reader read and comment for himself. He will find much written in this history,' which we have not noticed. People must read the Bible and Shakspeare for themselves. They can no more read for each other, than they can walk, and sleep, and eat for each other. The same book may be a nourishment to one mind, and a poison to another. The same sentence may draw tears from the boxes, and huzzas from the pit. But all may store their minds from Shakspeare. He is a well from which all may fill their buckets, hold they more or less. Preachers tell us we must read the Bible in a prayerful spirit; no more, say we, than any book. All must be read, not for pleasure only, but for profit. From the history' we have attempted to extract the moral, the serious, and the useful; and we shall be glad if we have been the means of eliciting a single good thought, of unfolding a single truth, or banishing a single error. J. N. B. TIME. OLD father Time stands still for none; If then with Time good friends you'd be, THE SISTER'S WISH. LANGUAGE Scarce hath power to tell How I love thee, brother; Dearer than all else below, Since we lost our mother: Ever while I think of thee, Tears of sweet emotion, And the faltering of my voice, Show my deep devotion. Could a sister's prayer avail, And her warm caressing, I would rear for thee a home Nothing sad should entrance gain, Philadelphia, Aug. 20, 1838. Flowers, whose leaves should wither not, These should cluster round thy home, Ah, that smile! it tells me thou And that other! - mortal eye Vanish then, my fairy dream, 2. H. S. MY OWN PECULIAR: OR STRAY LEAVES FROM THE PORTFOLIO OF A GEORGIA LAWYER. NUMBER ONE. THERE are three things in life, for which I have an unutterable and unconquerable aversion, namely: dust, a north-east wind, and a petulant old maid. These are the three grand divisions of human misery. All other evils, mental and physical, corporeal or incorporeal, take their origin from these. They are the fountains from whence flow penury, affliction, disease, and death; and if there be such a thing as a ' material hell,' I doubt not that it is made up of a happy admixture of these three. The old story of literal fire and brimstone, has lost half its terrors. If our energetic preachers, of the modern ultra or Burchard school, who deal out these articles by the wholesale, to the racing, dancing, and drinking reprobates, of the present generation, would but change their metaphor, and draw a vivid picture of a dry and barren plain, with clouds of dust floating over its surface, blinding the eyes and choking the breath of the condemned sinner; with a north-east wind chilling the very marrow of his bones, and an innumerable host of antiquated virgins hovering around him—one for each sin he had committed on earth-I am quite sure that an amazing and immediate reformation would be the inevitable consequence. The fellow who would grin at 'brimstone,' would look serious at 'dust;' the 'north-east wind' would stop the most hardened offender in mid-career; but when he was told that each sin he committed would visit him hereafter in the shape of a crabbed octogenarian old maid, you would see forcibly illustrated that line in Virgil, 'Steteruntque comæ et vox faucibus hæsit.' If he did not then reform, you might give him up. If he stood that, he would stand any thing. You might put him down as incorrigible; as 'an apostate from his mother's womb.' You might search his head for a twelve-month, without finding the organ of caution, while that of amativeness would be prodigiously large. In short, he would be just such a man as phrenologists tell you have 'an especial relish for damnation, for its own sake.' Don't imagine, reader, that I belong to that whining class, who sigh over all the little evils of existence. On the contrary, I have met and conquered some of its sternest foes. Gout has twisted my toes into ribbands; apoplexy has darted sheet-lightning through my brain; and angina pectoris has sent the warm blood leaping to the inmost citadel of my heart; but I have struggled through them all, and I am now a hale, hearty, cheerful, and vigorous old man, willing to live, and ready to die. It is not the light cloud of summer daydust, nor the gentle north-east wind, nor the cheerful, amiable, delightful old maiden lady, that I dread; but it is the Egyptian cloud; the terrible searcher from the sea;' the cross, crabbed, vinegar, man-hating, cat-loving, match-breaking specimen of virginity. I can stand all evils but these, which I hate with a fervor that has acquired the force of habit. SPEAKING of habit: Phrenologists are all at fault, when they tell us that our actions originate entirely from the developments of the brain. They do no such thing. We are the creatures of habit and association. Our pleasures are derived from our association of ideas, and these proceed from our habits. Let me give you an instance. I was seated in my study the other day, plodding over the mysteries of my old master, Coke, when I heard the terrible cry of Fire!' I ran to the window, and looked out; and sure enough, there it was! A volume of black smoke was clouding and obscuring the atmosphere, while ever and anon a vivid sheet of fire would dart forth from the surrounding darkness, like a ray of hope springing out of the clouds and blackness of existence. I seized my hat, and rushed down. On my way to the locus in quo, I passed the Exchange building, in whose steeple there is a bell, that has been wont to sound the tocsin of alarum of fire, for a period longer than the memory of that most respectable of all individuals, 'the oldest inhabitant.' At the base of the edifice, and gazing intently on the bell, stood an old acquaintance of mine. Why don't you go to the fire?' said I, shaking him. 'Fire?' answered he, there is no fire.' 'No fire!' said I, why don't you see it? It is close upon you, man! You'll feel it directly. There is no fire,' exclaimed he, with vehemence; the bell has not rung.' Unable and unwilling to combat this logic, I left him; but as I like to read the pages of human nature, I turned, when I had passed on about twenty steps, and gazed at him. There he stood, the atmosphere redolent with flame, and crowds of men, women, and incipient specimens of both sexes, rushing by him. Horses without riders, and riders without horses; fire-engines tossing their giant arms; the echo of a thousand voices flinging back that awful monosyllable, fire!'- and yet there he stood, transfixed, a statue, immovable. The bell had not rung;' but of a sudden, it gave tongue,' and its first stroke had the same effect upon him as Mr. Cross' electro-galvanic battery has upon flints and pummice stones. It vivified him; the statue started into life; and with an energy perfectly appalling, he rushed to the scene of confusion, shouting 'fire! fire! fire!' with a vehemence that arrested the crowd in its career. Why don't you go to the fire?' bawled he, as he passed me. 'Oh, nonsense!' said I, there's no fire.' 'No fire!' screamed he, in tones of the direst astonishment; 'why, don't you hear the bell?' Now that's what I call association of ideas. That man, during his whole existence, had been summoned to fires by the ringing of that bell; he could not, therefore, for the life of him, separate the ideas in his mind; and though his wife, children, and goods, (last, not least,) were being consumed before his eyes, he would not have moved a muscle to save them from the devouring element, until 'the bell had rung.' Let me give you another example. My study is in the second story of a building, and beneath me there dwells a tailor; a hardworking, clever, and honest man. My window looks out upon his garden, a spot some two by three feet, and where he spends his leisure moments. His pleasures are all concentrated in that oäsis of life's desert.' Now, fair reader, what do you think he has planted there? Violets?' No. 'Sweet-williams?' Not exactly; he has planted 'Stop, do n't tell me! Indian creepers and morning glorys? Try it again. Phsaw! Well, button-weed, I suppose?' That's somewhat nearer; but you have not hit it yet. Do you give it up? Well, he 's planted a cabbage-a full blown, vigorous cabbage!' No lover of the honey-moon looks more anxiously for the smile of his mistress, than does our friend of the shears watch over the verdant developments of his much-loved plant. Pygmalion's adoration of Marmorea was a milk-and-water feeling, compared with the enthusiastic devotion of our tailor to his cabbage. It is watered by his tears, and tended with his hands. The blighting frosts of winter harm it not, in its moss-covered sanctuary; and my own heart leaps with benevolent feeling, as I see my honest friend plying his needle at his shop-board, and casting now and then delighted glances at the beloved of his eyes, while his voice carrols forth some longremembered ditty, forcibly reminding the hearer of the nightingale's sonnet to the rose. In the language of the poet, 'It is the rainbow of his sight, His joy, his heaven of pure delight.' Now, I ask whence springs this affection? Answer, ye echoes of the human heart! Is it not association of ideas? Surely! |