evident he would not have put himself at it of his own accord. But he was good natured, and of a remarkably easy, contented disposition. He frequently showed, in the recitation room, a humor which, while it amused all, could not disturb the most surly pedagogue. All thought well of George; surely no one could think otherwise—and Eleonora became deeply in love with him.

I might mention numerous instances that occurred in the intercourse of the parties. Never before had my opinion been half so high of the lovely Emergene. She seemed to love Eleonora better, because she was the object of Alonzo's regard. Her true benevolence of heart, her entire freedom from envy, were conspicuous. She appeared vexed at her friend for not returning the affection of the generous youth. For a time, Alonzo seemed infatuated. I had not thought him capable of so much weakness. One might say, that he supposed Eleonora indispensible to his happiness—" on whose decision depended life and death." His nobleness of soul, however, atoned in part for his foible, in the deference with which he treated young Dowling, who he had not before thought of as an associate. He saw him senseless to the advances made by his own loved one, the erring Eleonora. While she tried every little art to win the affection of young Dowling, she was adored by Alonzo Williams. He bore her slights and coldness with manly fortitude, and hoped, by persevering attentions, to compel her, at last, to love him. Surely, he showed a want of a practical knowledge of mankind.

At length a circumstance occurred which awakened him from the illusion. Emergene's brother was to be married, and as she supposed it would be agreeable to Alonzo, she requested him to escort her friend, Eleonora, to the wedding party. Alonzo had no reason to expect so gross an insult as a refusal. But such he was to receive; Eleonora remarking that her father's servant was to drive the carriage, with herself and a female friend, to the appointed place.

I remember well that wedding festival. One after another was announced in the drawing-room :—Miss Eleonora Brentwood, and her friend, Miss Isabella Gleason, with numbers from different and distant villages. The assembly was large and brilliant. Alonzo Williams came alone, and seated himself, a quiet spectator of what was passing. All knew the circumstances of his coming; and though all felt rather to sympathy with him, than to jeer him, he was evidently suffering remorse for his folly, in misplacing his affection.

But he was cured. He now could look at.

things without the blinding prejudice of passion. Emergene was no less fitted to adorn the fashionable circle than to make the quiet of the parlor agreeable, i Withal, she treated him with the undesigning kindness of a brother. That evening he secretly resolved to do her justice.

From this memorable occasion, his conduct was changed. For some time he appeared rather to avoid the society of ladies, while he treated Eleonora with the most profound respect. He thought no less of her general character for not manifesting esteem for him. Meanwhile, she was to be awakened from her illusion. GeorgeDowlingrodeoift with acompany of young people on the afternoon of July 4th. He never thought of making Eleonora one of the party. She saw that she had not secured a particle of his love. She was disconsolate. For two weeks she had received from Alonzo no special attentions. She used every effort to regain his violated favor; jbut all to no purpose! He had resolved to do justice to Emergene. In three weeks he was seen, one evening, walking through the grove fronting the academy, with the lovely Igirl leaning upon his arm; and before the j middle of August, when the academic year closed, he was frequently in her company, j The unhappy Eleonora was now taunted by jthose who before had envied her the attentions of Alonzo, while the benevolent Emer!gene became her consoler and comforter.


Six years have since passed and have changed the circumstances, and in many instances, the entire prospects of the individluals composing that society. Eleonora, as before remarked, still lives at her father's : house—she has gained the love of no one ! heart, worthy of her own; while she exhibits ! in her countenance the effects produced on her spirits by an early misplaced affection. George Dowling, with a clever farmer's daughter, is settled at his father's business, in his native village, where he leads, apparently, a perfectly contented and happy life, i The next fall, Alonzo Williams entered the 1 Sophomore class at Yale College, from which, notwithstanding the disadvantages of an advanced entrance, he bore away the first honors. He entered the first law office in the shire town of his native county, into which, on the day of his admission to the bar, he was received as partner, on advantageous terms.

Four weeks ago I received a letter, inviting me, earnestly, to visit R , and I regretted much that my engagements rendered it impracticable. Last evening I found in my box, a number of the old country paper— announcing, among other items of news, the marriage of the noble and talented Alonzo Williams to the amiable Emergene;—with usual editorial gratulations—thanks for the liberal portion of excellent wedding cake, numberless ejaculations and aspirations for a long and happy life to the newly wedded pair, &c. &c.—to all of which—except, ofI course, for the wedding cake—my soul heaves a hearty response. SIVIS.

Hamilton, JV. Y.

Wrjften for the Ladies' Garland.



"Dear Father, will you lead me where

The pretty violets grow,—
And where the mountain daisy peeps,

And yellow cowslips blow?
How long before the flowers will bloom—

The lilac and the rose—
We placed around our Willy's tomb,

To guard his sweet repose?

"It seems but yesterday he died,—

My darling little brother,—
When every one around us cried,—

And you, and I, and mother.
How like a lily pale he lay,

Dress'd in his cambric bands, His forehead, oh how beautiful!

And his white waxen hands..

"How beautiful the lock of hair

Upon his face of snow,
Which mother used to dress each day,

And curl upon his brow.
I wish our Willy would have liv'd,

And gone with me to play,—
I miss him everywhere I go,

And more and more each day.

'' When you are gone, my mother weeps,

Her heart is sore oppress'd;
I cry until I fall asleep

Upon her gentle breast.
She says the summer soon will come,—

And pretty flowers will bloom,—
And then with me she'll wander forth,

And dress sweet Willy's tomb.

"The other day she took me there,

And then she knelt and pray'd;
And on the cold white altar stone

Her own sweet face she laid.
I fear sometimes my mother'11 die,

And then what should we do 1^
No other in the world I'd have,

But only God and you!

"Come, father, let us both return,

And homeward bend our way;— To visit little Willy's tomb

We'll come some other day."
With quicken'd steps they soughttheir home—

The father and his child;
No mother smil'd to see them come,—

Her eye was strangely wild.

"Why brought you not my Willy dear?—

For him I've waited long;
No longer can I tarry here,—

I'll seek my bird of song.
I see him, like a seraph, bow,

And reach his little hand;
With fadeless flowers around bis brow,

Plucked from the ' Spirit Land.'"

The father caught her to his breast,—

Entranc'd awhile she lay,—
Clung closely to her place of rest,—

Then soar'd from earth away!
"Thy mother's heart, my child, is broke,

Look now to God and me; Oh, heavy, heavy is the stroke,

So early laid on thee!"

"Oh, father, father, take me where

Sweet Willy lies alone;
And lay my mother by my side,

Close by the altar stone."
"What! leave your father all alone,

My sweetest, dearest joy;
Thy mother, Willy, Charley gone,—

Who'll care for me, my boy?"

"No, father, no, for you I'll wait,

'Till mother, from on high,
And Willy call us,—then we both

Will lay us down and die."

Sag Harbor, L. L, 1843.


"And I dare say you have scolded your wife very often, Newman," said I, once* Old Newman looked down, and the wife took up the reply. "Never to signify—and if he has, 1 deserved it." "And I dare say, if the truth were told, you have scolded him quite as often." "Nay," said the old woman, with a beauty of kindness which all the poetry in the world cannot excel, "how can a wife scold her good man, who has been working for her and her little ones all the day? It may do for a man to be peevish, for it is he who bears the crosses of the world; but who should'make him forget them but his own wife? And she had best for her own sake— for nobody can scold much when the scolding is all on one side."—Bulwer's Student.

No. 9. Mothers and Wives.Where is That Land. 271




We have long been under the impression, j, that in many cases in this country, a sad error exists in the bringing up of daughters. Mothers forget, we fear, that they should be educated to fulfil the responsible duties of parents and wives, and thus rather qualify them to glitter in the ball-room or shine in the gay circle of fashion, instead of fitting them for the domestic circle, and those gentle and constant responsibilities which are so essentia) to a good wife. How frequently is it the case, that the looks, dress and style of a young female are alluded to with exultation by her mother, as embracing all the elements suited to adorn and beautify the female character. How often, too, do we see parents rejoicing in the fact that Miss B. or Miss C. has dozens of beaux,—that scarcely a night goes by that three or four do not call,—without paying the slightest attention to the characters of those beaux, their means of livelihood, or their ability to render a gentle being, who has been brought up with great tenderness and care, comfortable and happy. How often do we see these fair young beings permitted to flirt, first with one, and then another,—to select companions from the reckless and dissolute, and thus become entangled in some romantic love-match, the end of which is anguish and despair. How often do we see fathers compelled to take their daughters home again under such circumstances,—while those who went forth from the family fire-side, glowing and blushing with health and hope, and youth and beauty, at the end of five years are the very wrecks of what they were but so short a period before.

It is always a bad sign to see a young lady run down with beaux. These mere admirers are, in nine cases out of ten, unsuited to be husbands, and flutter round the light of beauty, in mere vanity, and with the object of boasting that they visited such and such a one. Sensible men who are seeking for wives, do not desire to mingle with boys and fops in the pursuit, and soon become disgusted with the flippancy and lightness of the coquette, or the female who is constantly decorating the body, but disregarding the mind. Besides, men of business, merchants, manufacturers, and others, cannot seek month after month, or year after year, in endeavoring to ascertain the disposition and tone of feeling of the lady they may fancy. If they find her involved in the giddy maze of fashion and folly, they will soon abandon the pursuit, and seek for a more quiet, reasonable and practical object of courtship. There is another error to which we have once or twice adverted, but which cannot be alluded to too

often. We refer to the false policy of parents who are in poor or moderate circumstances, in bringing up their children with expectations of offers of marriage from those far beyond their station. It too often happens that in such cases, the poor girls fade year after year, and are compelled in the end, at the decease of those on whom they had heretofore depended for support, to eke out an existence for themselves. How often have we heard young ladies, the daughters of respecatble mechanics or store-keepers, sneering at the very possibility of their accepting the proffered hand of any but a merchant or professional character, or some such individual. This is all wrong,—radically wrong,— and fraught with immense distress to hundreds and thousands. Far better would it be for any female to marry a reputable, honest and active tradesman, in a thriving business, than a doctor or a lawyer, with little or no practice. Parents should pay more attention to these things, as well for themselves as for their children. We think it was Major Noah, who once said that he lived over again a new life as each of his children grew apace, and proceeded onwards to manhood or womanhood. If this doctrine be true, we should so educate our offspring as to render them happy, and thus to secure for ourselves the reflected sunshine that brightens their existence.

Written for the Ladies' Garland.



Where is that land, that better land,
Where spirits dwell, a glorious band,
On whose mysterious viewless shore,
The seraphim their anthems pore?
And where the mind, that heavenly flame,
Freed from its crumbling mortal frame,
Drinks of that hidden, mystic lore,
To which it here may never soar?

If stars compose that blissful sphere,
And there the soul hath its career,
Where, from this shadowy orb afar,
It wanders free from star to star;
Oh! who would linger here below,
Co-heir of sorrow, iirief, and woe?
And where misfortune's shafts destroy
Each lingering hope of future joy?

But if the soul, on pinions bright,
While mounting to those realms of light,
And roaming through that world of bliss,
"Should fail to find the loved of this,"
How cheerless would its wanderings be
Throughout the vast eterny,—
And where, throughout the realms of space,
Would it e'er find a resting place?


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In beauty lingers on the hills

The death-smile of the dying day;
And twilight in my heart instils

The softness of its rosy ray.
I watch the river's peaceful flow,

Here, standing by my mother's grave.
And feel my dreams of glory go, i

Like weeds upon its sluggish wave.

God eives us ministers of love,

Which we regard not, being near; Death takes them from us, then we feel

That angels have been with us here! As mother, lister, friend or wife.

They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain: And when the grave has clos'd between

Our hearts and theirs, we love—In vain.

Would, Mother! thou couldst hear me tell

How oft. amid my brief career. For sins and follies loved too well,

Hath falPn the free repentant tear. And, in the waywardness of youth.

How better thoughts have given to me Contempt for error, love for truth,

'Mid sweet remembrances of thee.

The harvest ofmy youthisdone.

And manhood, come with all its cares, Finds, garnered up within my heart.

For every flower a thousand tares. Dear Mother : couldst thou know my thougts'

While bending o'er this holy shrine, The depth of feeling in my breast,

Thou wouldst not blush to call me thine!

Written for the Ladies' Garland.


"Sic transit gloria mundi."

'It is with feelings of the deepest regret, that we turn the pages of history, to read of the fall, and present sad condition of the renowned cities of ancient days; for they forcibly remind us of the rapid march, and cankering tooth of time. Whilst beholding (with our fancy's eye,) their mournful relics, we are led to think that the day may come when our own dwelling places will be laid low,—our cities made desolate; and that nations yet unborn will come to these shores, to sigh over the remains of our happy homes. We hope that the cities of this western world may never meet with such a doom.

Time marches on apace; be touches a palace, and it falls,—he lays his iron hand upon a city, and it crumbles to dust. To-day we behold the world's beauties, to-morrow they have withered away; Time has passed by them, and marred their forms. How numerous are the trophies of his relentless arm! On the shores of that sea whose billows lave the northern coast of Africa, there stood (centuries ago) the wealthy and commercial city of Tyre. Her ships were wafted to all parts of the known world, and returned to their ports laden with the products of distant climes. Then, she was "the queen of the seas," and esteeming the title, she decked herself with pearls, and robes of costliestdye. But she has greatly fallen, and now what remains of that proud city? A few scattered ruins. Here, once stood the mansions of the rich, thronging with happy inmates—votaries of pleasure, who moved gracefully in the dance. Then revelry and mirth held their sway; but the scene is altered now. The giddy dance has ceased; the sounds of joy have died away, and the harmonious breathings of the lutes have given place to the shrieks of the wild-cat, and the hootings of the midnight owl. The on'y inhabitants of the city of Tyre, are scorpions, lizards, and other poisonous reptiles, which hide in the crevices of its ruins.

When we turn our attention to Thebes, who boasted in the strength of her hundred gates, we think that she might have stood "unimpaired amid the waste of ages, and the ravages of time." But how vain our thoughts; for her strong gates have fallen; her walls have long been destroyed, and she remains a heap of ruins on a desert plain; where the wandering Arab plants his tent, and partakes of his frugal meal. Among these ruins are some monuments, which (standing in majesty as protectors of the place,) give us some faint

idea of the former grandeur of their city. Near the site of old Thebes, stands the renowned, but now voiceless statue of Memnon, which (when the city was in its glory,) delighted in uttering a sweet and melodious sound, when the rising sun first shone upon it; but the spirit of music has taken its flight to more congenial climes, and Memnon views with silent sorrow the relics of a people, now passed away forever.

What is Rome? Once she stretched her arms over the nations of the earth, and led kings captive at her chariot-wheels; but she has bowed her haughty head to kiss the iron sceptre. Once she was the " mistress of the world," and governed by the long line of Ctesars, rejoiced in her dominion; but the Csesars have departed—the last one has been placed within the royal sepulchre, and his bones have mouldered in decay. Their palace is mingled with the dust, and desolation occupies the throne.

The huge Coliseum is no longer stained with the blood of the gladiators,—those human victims, who were "butchered to make a Roman holiday"—but stands tottering in its decay; and "the red sun now goes down and sheds his last ray upon its gray battlements, and the mellow moonbeam glimmers through the ivy-crowned walls and gloomy galleries."

In the day of its glory the Romans imagined their city " eternal," and neglecting to protect it, the invading foe entered and destroyed its power. flow small is modern Rome when compared with the old city of seven hills!" Thus the mighty pass away."

If we glance over the pages of classic lore, the land of Greece starts up before us in all her ancient beauty. We see the heroes of Marathon and Thermopylae struggling for their country's cause; we hear the words of wisdom dropping from the lips of Socrates; and the voice of Demosthenes re-echoes through the forum. But now how changed the scene! Her heroes have retired from the field. In her madness she destroyed her philosopher; and the wild weed rankles over the ashes of her eloquent son.

Greece, however, is easily recognised by one of the fragments of her former grandeur —the old Parthenon, which, standing firmly on its rock-built throne, seems to point with scorn at the crumbling touch of Time.

Such are some of the ruins of Time; but why need we wander among the cities of the old world, for the trophies of his renown; since the researches of a modern traveller have shown to us, that in our own continent are the remains of a city, once perhaps as mighty as any of those just mentioned? The southern part of North America is the sight |of these ruins; they are encompassed by a

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