horrid spell was broken, for she sate up suddenly, leaned forward towards me, and her mouth opened as though she were about to speak!

"Agnes! Agnes! dear Agnes! Speak, speak but a word! Say you live!" I exclaimed, rushing forwards, and folding my arms about her. Alas, she heard me not, she saw me not, but fell back in bed in her former state! When the galvanic shock was conveyed to her limbs, it produced the usual effects—dreadful to behold in all cases —but agonizing to me in the case cf Miss

P . The last subject on which I had

seen the effects of galvanism, previous to the present instance, was the body of an executed malefactor; and the association revived on the present occasion were almost too painful to bear. I begged my friend to desist, for I saw the attempt was hopeless, and 1 would not allow her tender frame to be agitated to no purpose. My mind misgave me for ever making the attempt. What, thought I, if we have fatally disturbed the nervous system, and prostrated the small remains of strength she had left? While I was torturing myself with fuch fears as these, Dr.

D laid down the rod, with a melancholy

air, exclaiming—" Well, what is to be done now? I cannot tell you how sanguine I was about the success of this experiment! * * Do you know whether she ever had a fit of epilepsy ?" he inquired.

"No—not that I am aware of. I never heard of it, if she had."

"Had she generally a horror of thunder and lightning?"

"Oh—quite the contrary! she felt a sort of ecstacy on such occasions, and has written some beautiful verses during their continuance. Such seemed rather her hour of inspiration than otherwise!"

"Do you think the lightning has affected her? Do you think her sight is destroyed?"

"I have no means of knowing whether the immobility of the pupils arises from blindness, or is only one of the temporary effects of catalepsy."

"Then she believed the prophecy, you think, of the world's destruction on Tuesday?"

"No—I don't think she exactly believed it: but I am sure that day brought with it awful apprehensions—or at least a fearful degree of uncertainty."

"Well—between ourselves—there was something very strange in the coincidence, was there not? Nothing in life ever shook my firmness as it was shaken yesterday! I almost fancied the earth was quivering in its sphere!"

"It was a dreadful day! One I shall never forget!—That is the image of it," I exclaimed, pointing to the poor sufferer—" which will be engraven on my mind as long as I

live!—But the worst is, perhaps, yet to be

told you: Mr. N , her lover, to whom

she was very soon to have been married, He will be here shortly to see her"

Dr. D clasped his hands, and, eyeing

Miss P with intense commisseration—

exclaimed, "What a fearful bride for him? 'Twill drive him mad!"

"I dread his coming—I know not what we shall do!—And then, there's her mother— poor old lady! her I have written to, and expect almost hourly!"

"Why, what an accumulation of shocks and miseries! it will be upsetting you!" said my friend, seeing me pale and agitated.

"Well!" he continued—" I cannot now stay here longer—your misery is catching; and, besides, I am most pressingly engaged; but you may rely on my services, if you should require them in any way."

(To be concluded in our next.)



The youthful maid—the gentle bride—
The happy wife, her husband's pride,
Who meekly kneel at morning rry,
The incense of their vows to pay;
Or pour, amid their household train
From love's full heart, the vesper strain;
What know they of her anguish'd cry,
Who lonely lifts the tearful eye?
No sympathizing glance to view
Her altered cheek's unearthly hue—
No soothing tone, to quell the power
Of grief that bursts at midnight hour;
Oh, God! her heart is pierced and bare—
Have mercy on the Widow's prayer!

Not like that mother's heavenward sigh,
Who sees her fond protector nigh,
Is her's, who, reft of earthly trust,
Hath laid her bosom's lord in dust-
Sleeps her young babe? but who shall share
Its waking charms—its holy care ?—
Who shield the daughter's opening bloom,
Whose father moulders in the tomb?
Her son, the treacherous world beguiles,
What voice shall warn him of its wiles?
What strong hand break the deadly snare?
Oh, answer, Heaven! the Widow's prayer!

For not the breath of prosperous days,
Tho' warmed with joy, or wink'd with praise,
fO'er kindled such a living coal
Of deep devotion in the soul,
As that wild blast which bore away
Its idol to returnless cldy,
And for the wreath that crown'd the brow,
Left bitter herbs and hyssop bough—
A lonely couch—a sever'd tie—
A tear that time can nevev dry—
Unuttered woe—unpitied care—

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This bird is peculiar to the New World, and is most frequently found in those portions of it, where nature has strewn her bounties with the most lavish prodigality. It is in the rich blossoming fields and forests of Louisiana, that you should listen to the wonderful notes of the Mocking Bird.

In the beginning of April, arrd sometimes a fortnight earlier, the Mocking Birds pair,and construct their nest. This is built in a solitary thorn-bush, an orange tree, a red cedar, a holly bush, and not unfrequently within a small distance of a house, in a pear or apple tree, six or seven feet from the ground. It is carelessly constructed of dry twigs, weeds, straw, wool and tow, grasses and wood, and lined with fine fibrous roots disposed in a circular form. While the female is sitting, neither cat, dog, animal, nor man can approach the nest without being attacked.

Different species of snakes prove very troublesome to these birds. They climb to their nests, and generally suck their eggs or swallow the young. But their most formidable and mortal enemy is the black snake. Whenever this reptile is discovered, dPmale darts upon it with the rapidity of an arrow, dexterously eluding its bite, and striking it violently and incessantly against the head, where it is very vulnerable. The snake soon becomes sensible of its danger and seeks to escape; but the intrepid bird redoubles his exertions, and seizes and lifts it up from the ground, beating it with his wings, and when the business is completed, he returns to his nest, mounts the summit of the bush, and

pours out a torrent of song in token of victory. —The musical powers of this bird are the most wonderful in nature. Some naturalists have described the notes of the nightingale as occasionally equal to them; but Audubon having heard both species in confinement, and in the wild state, says that such a comparison is, in his opinion, quite absurd. The Mocking Bird, according to Wilson, loses little of the power and energy of his song by confinement. .

The variety of his song is incessant, and very capricious. His imitations of the brown thrush are interrupted by the crowing of chickens; and he mingles the warblings of the blue bird with the screamings of swallows and the cacklings of hens. Now you listen to the simple melody of the robin, now to the reiterations of the whippoorwill, and now to the notes of the blue jay, martin, oriole, and twenty others, so like the originals, that you can hardly dream that' they come from the single admirable performer before you. Both in the fields and in the cage, he commences his delightful song at the rising of the moon, and continues during the solemn stillness of the night to make the whole neighborhood resound with his inimitable music.

He is nine and a half inches long. He has a compressed, straight bill of moderate length, rather a slender neck and body, and a head of a corresponding size. His plumage is soft and well blended, with nothing in it gaudy or brilliant. The upper parts of the head, neck and back, are a dark brownish ash; the under parts are of a brownish white. THE THREE KISSES.


"Thanks be to Him, who ga\'e me strength! My babe,
My boy—my first-born—blessings on his head!—
Is born! see, see he smiles! he laughs! his arms
Are stretched towards me greeting! tender germ,
Sweet blossom of thy mother's heart!''

She said,—
She pressed, she kissed him! 'twas the first,
The virgin kiss upon his ruby lips!
The mother kissed her first-born! Act the first!


And now the vow is sworn by both; they walk
As were they one, encircled arm in arm!
Along the verdant mead in converse sweet;
"1 have but thee, I need but thee, beloved.
And own, with thee, my happiness complete!"
She said, and blushing at her boldness, pressed
The bridal kiss upon his answering lip!
The curtain falls—the second act is o'er.


The voice of woe, half-stifled sobs break forth
From bursting bosoms. He—the boy—the man—
Hath drunk the bitter cup; is dead? not yet;
Is dying! Who attends his death-bed? Who?
Some twenty years ago she was his bride,
Now wife, the mother of his children. Sobs
Stifle the words she would but cannot speak.
Her hand is on his heart;—the pulse hath stopped!
The eye, so sparkling once, hath lost its fire—
'Tis fixed on her, but, ah! its smile hath fled!
She presses down the lid; she breathes the last—
The last fond kiss upon his breathless lips,—
His passport to a better world than this!
And thus the third act ends :—the rest is show!



People have an ominous dread of encountering funerals; now, for our own part, we like to meet a funeral; and what is more, we find a melancholy pleasure in turning round and following it. Touches of genuine nature are to be met with at a funeral. The artificial is thrown aside, the mask we all wear in the business or pleasures of life falls off, and we are able sometimes to catch occasional glimpses of men as they really are, or ought to be. We say sometimes, for there is abundance of hypocrisy at a funeral as any where else, but even this is worth contemplating. There is much matter for conjecture in funerals; we like to imagine that we see reflected in the faces of the mourners what manner of man was the deceased. We try to puzzle out the expression of the disappointed legatee, and the more subdued grief of him, who, having been bequeathed much, regrets that he has not got more; or of him, who, having the lion's share, is yet sorrowful

that he had not the good fortune to have had all. Then there are the mourners, not of hoods, scarfs, and weepers, but of the heart —mourning a loss beyond that of the world's losses—losses no world's wealth can repair. The tender, dutiful wife, the prudent, affectionate husband, the son or daughter of our youth, or of our age. The parent, dropping ripe into the lap of earth, or, deeper grief, cut off in the midst of his hopes, expectation?, and pursuits, leaving, perhaps, a young family slenderly provided for, or not at all; the attached and long-esteemed friend, the woman we loved, or could have loved. These are the griefs, various in the expression, that, surrounding the yawning grave, pay the last sad offices to the unconscious dead; then slowly, and with downcast weeping eyes, wend slowly homewards their melancholy way.

It was a fine summer Sabbath evening in June, and we were walking about among the tomb-stones, as usual, making our observations upon life and character, when our attention was arrested by a plain coffin, borne upon the shoulders of four men in black, and followed by eight chief mourners, all in decent but humble suits of sables. The chief mourners were eight children; or, to speak more correctly, three boys and three girls, with two little "toddies," mere infants, straggling in the rear. The eldest boy and girl might have been about fourteen and fifteen years respectively; the next, twelve and eleven; the third pair between seven and eight; the youngest, as we have said, between infancy and childhood. The eyes of all spectators were upon the bereaved ones as they stood around the grave, yawning to receive their only parent and provider; and few were the dry eyes of those who beheld the melancholy group—the eldest boy looking fierce and man-like, the rest weeping bitterly, save the youngest pair looking wonderingly around, as if marvelling what all the ceremony might mean.

"Cutting funeral, that, sir," observed a little pursy man in black, who stood near us; "werry cutting funeral, indeed," repeated the little man, blowing his nose violently. "

"Who are they?" we inquired, not without anticipating something like the little domestic history we were favored with by the nose-blowing little man, in black.

"Horphans, sir—every one on 'em horphans; that's rjjeu' mother as is a bein' buried, sir." "Indeed!" #

"Yes, sir; she was a 'spectable woman— highly 'spectable, indeed—werry virtuous, poor woman, sir—paid rates and taxes in the parish for twenty years. I ought to know it; for I'm one of the overseers—1 am."

"I should like to hear something of the family."

"Should you, sir? Well, you shall hear; but it's a melancholy story—werry melancholy, indeed. You must know, sir, there wasn't a more decenter couple in this parish, than Thomas Mason and his wife, Jane

; they were well to do, and doing

well; every body respected them, for they paid their way, and was civil to their customers. Well, Thomas fell in a decline, sir, and died; but he didn't die soon enough— for his sickness wasted all his substance, and the business was neglected, so the family fell into poverty; but the poor widow struggled on, and the exertions she made to sustain them little ones, was really the wonder of the neighborhood. "Mr. Smith," says she to me, when 1 offered some relief, " I won't trouble this world long, and parish money shall never cross my palm; but when I'm gone, you won't see my desolate orphans want a mors el of bread." So, poor woman, she was right; for she soon sickened, and was bed-ridden for thirteen months; and them children, as you see a standing 'round j their mother's grave, worked themselves toi an oil to keep her from the hospital—much! more the work'us. The girls worked all day; and the boys and girls sat up all night, turn and turn about, with their poor mother —she was sorely afflicted, poor woman. Well, sir, when she died at last, our vicar went and offered his assistance, and told the children, of course, the parish would bury their mother; but that there hobstinate boy —him that's a givin' his orders—wouldn't hear of it, and b'owed up the vicar for mentioning such a thing.

So the vicar comes to me, and says he, "Mr. Smith, these here young Masons is the oddest babies as ever I see, for"they've sold j their bed and all their things to bury theirI mother; let's make up a purse for them, and there's my sovereign to begin with." SaysI I, " Never mind, I'll bring them right; andj the parish shall bury the poor woman, so' that'll be so much saved;" and with that I goes off to Poppin's Court, and into the fustI floor; there was the poor woman dead, and j the room stripped of all the furniture and: things. Says that there youth, " Mr. Smith," says he, "I'd be very glad to see you ano-i ther time, but we're in great grief for our i mother bein' dead, and we hope you'll ex-j cuse us askin' you to sit-down." Lord lovei you, sir, there wasn't the sign of a chair or a table in the room, nothing but the corpse, and a bit of a plank. Says I, "My boy, I'm sorry for your grief, but I hope you won't have any objection to let the parish manage

your poor mother's funeral." With that, sir, the boy flares up like any thing, whips up a poker, and says if he catches the parish a icomin' to touch his mother, he'll brain the i lot of'em: "Mother lived without the par[ ish," says he, "died without the parish, and she'll be buried without the parish!" With j that he opens the door and shows me down stairs, as if he was a young markiss; that's the story on 'em, sir; and they're a riggler hindependent lot as ever I see. God help them, poor things!"

And with this the little man blew his nose once more, as the group of motherless children re-tormed in their sad order of procession, and with streaming eyes, and many repeated last looks at their mother's grave, departed to their naked home.

Written for the Ladies' Garland.


On being presented by R. D., Jr., with a box, "From a pear tree, preached under by George Fox. at Balby Yorkshire, 1600-6."


What's hallow'd ground? 'Tis what gives birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! —Campbell.

They err, who say that relics, brought
From distant lands, from scenes gone by,

Amid our valued treasures kept,
Are objects of idolatry;

That weakly, vainly, they are cherish'd,

Memorials of things long perish'd.

It is not so!—they sometimes touch

The chords of deep, pure, holy feeling,—

Light, which has been too long obscured
By clouds of earth, again revealing;
To "sacred thoughts" their mute appealing

May not be vain,—but scenes thus brought
To Fancy's eye, or Memory's,
Breathing of long departed days,

May be with deep instruction fraught:
And often, as we thus are led
To trace the history of the dead,
(Though a far different path we tread,)

Lessons of import high be taught.

And who is there that has not proved
How trifles given by friends beloved,—
(A link of flowers in the chain

Of Friendship, woven long ago,—)
Have power to bring to view again

A scene of by-gone days, and throw A light on Memory's page, revealing

The rich, unfaded treasures there, Touching the heart with grateful feeling,

Soothing the mind oppress'd by care; Oh! 1 would never ask a share

In hearts that hold them valueless, The records traced by Memory there,

Can only selfish thoughts express.



"Well," said Ellen North, with a toss of her pretty head, and a contemptuous curl of the lip, as the street door closed behind her father and his friend, "I do think papa is the strangest man that 1 ever saw!"

"How so ?" inquired her mother, quietly.

"How sol why mamma, I shouldn't suppose you would ask. Only think of his bringing that vulgar old codger here to dinner today."

"I am very sorry, Ellen, if your father has done any thing to injure your delicate nerves; perhaps you had better retire to your room till you recover from the shock."

"You may laugh at me as much as you please, mamma, but I know if Mrs. A., or Mr. C, or Dr. L. had been here, you would have been ashamed."

"I am not disposed to laugh, my child, however ridiculous your notion might appear to others, for this is in reality a serious subject. Neither the presence of the visitors you have named, nor that of any others, would make me ashamed to entertain this Mr. Selwyn, since I understand he is an old friend of your father's. I never saw him before, but his being invited to dinner, is a sufficient proof of his respectability, and I shall always be pleased to entertain any guest your father introduces."

"An old friend! I hope papa is not under any obligations to him."

"I know of no pecuniary obligations, but these are not always the deepest, Ellen."

"I know what you would say, mamma, but there are different classes in society, and I suppose men belonging to the same class, have claims upon each other, but I don't see why they should extend their claim to their superiors." Mrs. North smiled, and Ellen, perceiving that she had been uttering nonsense, attempted to cover her bad argument by ridiculing the farmer. "But Mr. Selwyn is such a vulgar appearing man, mamma, why he is as coarse and rougli as though he had been accustomed to the stable, or cobbler's stall, all the days of his life. I verily believe he was never in a parlor before; his loud voice almost frightened me, and then his great thick boots—dear me! one would think he was shoJ with iron."

"I perceive that you are somewhat agitated—"

"Now, mamma!"

"Well, I will not laugh at you—Mr. Selwyn's face is certainly somewhat weatherbeaten, and his features, as they should be, not very feminine, but I discovered nothing like vulgarity in his person or manners. His voice is strong and manly, and I will acknow

ledge needs some softening down, to sound well in a parlor, and his dress is just what I should expect from the little that 1 saw of his character, plain, neat, and comfortable."

"Well, I am sure you can't say but his behavior was clownish; didn't you observe him eating with his knife, drinking from his saucer, and putting his napkin any where and every where but the right place?"

"These are but trifles, Ellen, and only confirm what we should know without them, that custom has not made him acquainted with all the minutiae of what we call refined society."

"Then, I shouldn't think he would come here, even if papa did invite him."

"Ellen, my dear child, you don't under, stand these things. Why should Mr. Selwyn refuse to dine with an old friend, merely because there happens to be a little difference in their respective circumstances? They commenced life together, one chose noise and bustle, the cares and anxieties attendant on a mercantile life, and the other betook himself to his quiet farm; is this difference in tastes a reason why they should ever be estranged?"

"Is Mr. Selwyn rich, mamma?"

"I don't know. Be that as it may, I know by your father's manner to-day, that he esteems him highly, and that he was evidently very much pained by your rude conduct."

"Well, I suppose there is no harm in being rude to rude people, and for the life of me, [ couldn't help laughing at his stiff bow, and queer voice."

"A lady is a lady every where, Ellen, and I am extremely sorry that you have so forfeited your claim to the title."

"Oh, nonsense, rnarnma, the old fellow didn't dream that I was making fun of him, and without dovibt, will tell his daughter, that he boasted so much about, how delighted he was with the attentions of the charming Miss Ellen. Only think how condescendingly I played that beautiful waltz, and then —true, I was a little vexed when, without giving me a single compliment, he asked for 'Auld Lang Syne,'as though I was expected to know such old-fashioned things."

"Yes, rather too condescendingly, Ellen, and since you seem to be insensible to any claim but that of fashion, let me tell you that I never saw a true lady put on an air of condescension. If Mr. Selwyn had not pitied your vanity and folly, he would have made you feel his disapprobation."

"Pity me.'" exclaimed Ellen, angrily, "really, mamma, I do not need the pity of such people, and hope I never shall. Pity, indeed ! and I suppose he will bring his great, strapping, red-haired daughter to pity me next, and I shall have to play to a whole tribe of little Selwyns. Pah!"

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