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bread and play (panis et circeuses!) of the Roman people, then degenerated into a gang of slothful hyenas. Within this frightful place, once overflowing with foaming torrents of conquered blood, and resounding with bestial shouts at the tearing into pieces of Christians by lions and panthers, naught now strikes the ear, except the barking of the dog of an aged hermit— the guardian of these sad relics, or, on holydays, the ringing of the little bell of the masssaying Capuchin;–for all around the interior of the area, penitential altars are crected, with a small bell, suspended, over each one, for the purpose of inviting passers-by, or those visiting the colosseum, to join in prayer.— Here how strangely are the heathen past and the Christian present linked together! What a subject for meditation : Our fine print presents the prospect from the triumphal arc of Titus, across the Forum, toward the splendid fragments of the temple of Concordia, the portico of which, with seven erect standing marble columns, furnishes one of the most beautiful and picturesque remains of Roman architecture.—The tricolamnar ruin, to the right, belonged, together with the fragments lying on the ground, to a temple of Jupiter Tonans, which Augustus ordered to be raised upon the spot where, during a tempest, one of his companions was struck by lightning, and killed.—All these ruins are wholly of marble.—They were only a few years since, buried under ground to half their height, but are now freed to the very foundation. The marble pavement of the triumphal road, covered twenty feet high with the rubbish of 1500 years devastation, has likewise been completely cleared.

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Among some, who have read Blackstone, and more who have not, the erroneous and ungallant opinion prevails that a husband may chastise his wife, provided the weapon be not thicker than his little finger. For the benefit of the ladies, the information of the gentlemen, and the honor of our land, it should be known that this is not the law. There was a decision of our constitutional [supreme] court about 13 years since pronounced by the late Judge Wilds, in the dignified sweetness of his noble spirit, in which he proclaimed the law on the subject, in the following graceful extract from the Honey Moon:—

“The man that lays his hand upon a woman * Save in the way of kindness, is a wretch Whom "twere gross flattery to call a coward.” ==

Neither the cold nor the fervid, but characters uniformly warm, are formed for friend. ship.

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have already faded and disappeared, and how

would a single frost mar and wither the beauty of all this charming scenery. How many vernal hopes have you known cut off in a single night. The tender bud, the fragile stem, and the opening blossom, have been smitten and have fallen together. And so it has been in some of your families;–the bud has been nipt by an untimely frost;-the sweet and smiling babe has been taken out of your arms, and laid away where you will never see it more. Or when the bud was spared to expand a little, and the lovely flower was daily unfolding new charms, it was suddenly severed from the stem, and you saw all its beauty wither in an hour. Or if it was left still longer to expand—and while you were gazing upon the full blown rose, admiring its beauty and inhaling its sweetness, “the wind passed over it and it is gone, and the place thereof shall know it no more.” Such, however, has not been the mournful experience of all the heads of young families who will read these pages. You look round, perhaps, and see no vacancy in the little blooming and joyous circle; and you think how these prattlers will one day minister to your decrepitude, and bear your names and bless your memory. But look abroad a little and learn to check these fond anticipations. Where are the blossoms of yesterday? How many of them have fallen already, and how many of the sweetest, loveliest that remain, will soon lie scattered on the ground. Look upon your children then, as you do upon the ephemeral flowers of the season:—“For all flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away.” Consider, also, that your beloved children are now in the spring season of life. Let their tender minds be daily and assiduously cultivated. Be careful to sow good seed.— Plant and water with all diligence, and look continually to God to give the increase. Be careful to root out the noxious weeds, as soon as they appear, and cherish every promising shoot. When you are in the field turning up the soil and casting abroad the precious grain, and when you consider how soon the present seed-time will be over, let your employment and your meditations quicken you in the all-important duties which you owe to your children. O, let it not be said, that while your farms are kept in the best condi

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THE DUTY OF MOTHERS,

To superintend the course of Reading pursued by their Children.

A taste for reading is of the greatest importance to cultivate in early life; since it opens channels of the best instruction, and places within the sphere of domestic employment, the most interesting materials for the occupation of the hours of leisure. Never was there a period, in the ages that are past, in which so happy a selection of books for the youthful mind could have been made, as is practicable at the present day; nor was there ever a period, in which parental wisdom was so urgently required, in making a safe and beneficial selection. Not only have the elements of science and literature been presented in their most simple and most attractive form, and brought down to the level of juvenile capacity; but the same process of simplifying and embellishing has been employed to subserve the cause of dangerous error of disguised and of avowed infidelity, and of principles equally hostile to happiness, to morals, and to religion. The indiscriminate perusal of works of fiction also, whether in prose or poetry, is calculated to induce consequences which a pious parent cannot contemplate without dread. It has a tendency at once to vitiate the taste; to give undue excitement to the imagination, at the expense of every other intellectual energy; to subjugate reason to the dominion of the passions; to contaminate the thoughts, by contaminating the heart; to exhibit, under false and fascinating colors, a course of amusement and dissipation, and to overspread with gloom the scenes of common life, so as to render its duties irksome, and its lawful pleasures insipid. Judge, then, ye parents, whether indiscriminate reading can be permitted with safety; and whether a mild, and gentle, and persuasive authority ought not to be exercised in the choice of books for your children.

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But its own sharers, and approving heaven.

That, like a flower, deep hid in rocky cleft,

Smiles, though 'tis only looking at the sky. *

NEATNESS AND TA STE,

In a female, particularly, well deserve the name of virtues; but without them, whatever may be her excellencies, she has none that will be honored and acknowledged. A woman may be industrious and economical; she may possess a well cultivated mind; but destitute of neatness and taste, she depresses rather than elevates the character of her sex, and poisons, instead of purifying the fountain. of domestic and public happiness.

Whatever a misinformed piety may judge, true piety, well informed, is the nurse of every personal and social virtue. Religion has not unfrequently lost her pure and benign influence by needlessly arraying herself against all those personal accomplishments, which, though not the first, constitute one of the appropriate and important duties of the female sex. You may discover a neatness and taste in the mind of a praiseworthy woman, be her condition in life ever so humble. You shall see them interwoven with her thoughts, expressions, and conduct, and giving a cast to every thing she is and every thing she does. Her manners will partake largely of these excellent qualities, and in every respect be the emanation of a neat and polished mind, and a well cultivated and benevolent heart. Equally removed from that affectation of softness which is disgustful and nauseous, and that intrepidity which sets at defiance the maxims of ordinary discretion, they will be modest, pleasing, and dignified, and the natural and unstudied expression of that cautious delicacy which is the best guardian of female reputation.

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sweet the apple blossom ; black are thy locks, Evelina, and polished as the raven's smooth pinions; the swan's silver plumage is not fairer than thy neck—and the witch of love heaves all her enchantments from thy bosom. Rise, my Evelina, the sprightly beam of the sun descends to kiss thee without enmity to me, and the heath reserves its blossom to greet thee with its odors —thy timid lover will pluck the strawberries from the awful crag, and rob the hazel of its auburn pride, the sweetness of whose kernel thou far exceedest; let my berries be as red as thy lips, and the nuts ripe, yet milky as the love-begotten fluid in the bridal bosom. Queen of the cheerful smile ! shall I not meet thee at the moss grown cave and press to my heart thy beauties in the wood of Iniscother How long wilt thou leave me, Evelina, mournful as the lone son of the rock: telling thy beauties to the passing gale, and pouring out my complaints to the grey stone of the valley. Ah! dost thou not hear my song, Oh virgin! thou shouldst be the tender daughter of a meek-eyed mother. Whenever thou comest, Evelina, thou approachest like summer to the children of frost; and welcome with rapture are thy steps to my view, as the harbinger of light to the eye of darkness.

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CARoline was the first to die. Her character, unlike that of both her sisters, had been distinguished by great spirit and vivacity, and when they were present, had always diffused something of its own glad light over the serene composure of the one, and the melancholy stillness of the other, without seeming ever to be inconsistent with them; nor did her natural and irrepressible buoyancy altogether forsake her even to the very last.— With her the disease assumed its most beautiful show. Her light blue eyes sparkled with astonishing brilliancy—her cheeks, that had always hitherto been pale, glowed with a rose-like lustre—although she knew that she was dying, and strove to subdue her soul down to her fate, yet, in spite of herself, the strange fire that glowed in the embers of her life, kindled it often into a kind of airy gladness: so that a stranger would have thought her one on whom opening existence was just revealing the treasures of its joy, and who was eager to unfold her wings, and sail on into the calm and sunny future. Her soul, till within a few days of her death, was gay in the exhiliration of disease, and the very night before she died, she touched the harp with a playful hand and warbled as long as her strength would admit,

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a few bars of a romantic tune. No one was with her when she died, for she had risen earlier than her sisters, and was found by them, when they came down to the parlor, leaning back with a smiling face on the sofa, with a few lilies in her hand, and never more to have her head lifted up in life. The youngest had gone first, and she was to be followed by EMMA, the next in age.— Emma, although so like her sister who is low dead, that they had always been thought by strangers to be twins, had a character altogether different. Her thoughts and feelings ran in a deeper channel; nature had endowed her with extraordinary talents, and whatever she attempted, serious acquisition, or light accomplishment, in that she easily excelled. Few, indeed, is the number of women that are eminently distinguished among their sex, and leave names to be enrolled in the lists of fame. Some accidental circumstances of life or death have favored those few, and their sentiments, thoughts, feelings, fancies, and opinions, retain a permanent existence. But how many sink into the grave in all their personal beauty, and in all their mental charms, and are heard of no more! Of them no bright thoughts are recorded, no touching emotion, no wild imaginations. All their fine and true perceptions, all their instinctive knowledge of the human soul, and all their pure speculation on the mystery of human life, vanish forever and aye with the parting breath. A fair, amiable intelligent young maiden has died and is buried—that is all;-and her grave lies in its unvisited rest. Such an one was Emma Beaton. Her mother, her sisters, and a few dear friends, knew what treasures of thought were in her soui, what gleams of genius, and what light of unpretending wisdom. But she carried up her pure and high thoughts with her to heaven, nor did any of them survive her on earth, but a few fragments of hymns set by herself to plaintive music, which no voice but her own, so deep and yet so sweet, so mellow yet so mournful, could ever have fitly sung. The sufferings of this sister were heavy indeed, and she at last prayed to be relieved.— constant sickness, interrupted only by fits of racking pain, kept the fair shadow for the last weeks of her life to bed, and nothing seemed to disturb her so much as the incessant care of her elder sister. Emma's religious thoughts had long been of an almost dark, and awful character, and she was possessed of a deep sense of her own utter unworthiness in the sight of God. It was feared, that, as her end drew near, and her mind was weakened by continual suffering, her last hours might be visited with visions too trying and terrible; but the reverse was the case, and it seemed as if God, to reward a life of meeknes, hu

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mility, and wisdom, removed all fear from her soul, and showed her the loving, rather than the awful mysteries of the Redeemer. On her dead face there sat a smile, just as pleasant and serene as that which had lighted the countenance of Caroline, when she fell asleep for ever with the lilies in her hand. The old nurse, who had been with them from their infancy, alone observed that she had expired, for there had been no sigh, and the pale emaciated fingers moved not as they lay clasped together across her breast. Louis A, the eldest, was now left alone, and although her health had always been the most delicate, there seemed, from some of the symptoms, a slight hope that she might recover. The fatal hectic flush did not stain her cheeks; and her pulse, though very faint, had not the irregularity of alarming fever.— But there are secrets known but to the dying themselves; and all the encouraging kindness of her friends was received by her as sweet proofs of affection, but never once touched her heart with hope. The disease, of which both her sisters had died, was in the blood of her father's family, and she never rose up from her bed, or her couch, or the gay osier seat in the sunny garden, without feeling a death-like lassitude, that could not long endure. Indeed, she yearned for the grave; and hers was a weariness that could only find entire relief in the perfect stillness of the narrow house. Had Louisa not felt death within her bosom, there were circumstances that could not have failed to make her desire life, even after her mother and sisters were taken away. For she had been betrothed, for a year past, to one who would have made her happy. He received an account of the alarming state of her sisters at Pisa, whither he had gone for the establishment of his own health, and he instantly hurried home to Scotland. Caroline and Emma were in their graves; but he had the mournful satisfaction to be with his own Louisa in her last days. Much did he, at first, press her to go to Italy, as a faint and forlorn hope; but he soon desisted from such vain per. suasions. “The thought is so sweet to lay our bones within the bosom of our native soil.— The verdure and the flowers I loved will brighten around my grave, the same trees whose pleasant murmurs cheered my living ear, will hang their cold shadows over my dust; and the eyes that met mine in the light of affection, will shed tears over the sod that covers me, keeping my memory green within their spirits!” He who had been her lover, but was now the friend and brother of her soul, had nothing to say in reply to these natural sentiments. “After all they are but fancies, Henry; but they cling to the heart from wo* sprung, and to be buried

in the sweet church-yard of Blantyre, is now a thought most pleasant to my soul.” In dry summer weather, a clear rivulet imperceptibly shrinks away from its sandy bed, till on some morning we miss the gleam and murmur altogether, and find the little channel dry." Justin this way was Louisa wasting, and so was her life pure and beautiful to the last. The day before she died, she requested, in a voice that could not be denied, that her brother would take her into the church-yard, that she might see the grave of her mother and sisters all lying together, and the spot whose daisies was soon to be disturbed. She was carried thither in the sunshine, on her sick chair, for the distance was only a few hundred yards; and her attendants having withdrawn, she surveyed the graves with a beaming countenance, in presence of her friends. “Methinks,” said she, “I hear a hymn, and children singing in the church 1 No-no, it is only the remembered sound of the psalm 1 heard last Sabbath. I had strength to go then. Oh! sweet is it now, as the reality itself!” He who was to have been her husband was wholly overcome, and hid his face in despair. “I go, my beloved, to that holy place, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, but we shall meet there, purified from every earthly stain. Dry up your tears, and weep no more. Kiss—oh kiss me once before I die!”. He stooped down; and she had just strength to put her arms around his neck, when with a long sigh, she expired.

THE HUSBAND'S REMEMBRANCE.

Since thy pure soul has burst the chain
That o'er its clay too harshly prest;
Since freed from earthly bliss or pain,_
I, too, am blotted from thy breast;-
I would not break thy dreamless rest,
If rest like thine disturbed might be;
Or grieve to think that thou art blest,
Although thou art not blest by me.

The victor's promised pure attire—
The wreath approving angels twine—
A seraph's strain, a seraph's lyre,
And more than all—the love divine
Of heaven's Eternal King, are thine:—
Yea—thine for evermore shall be;—
And could I call thee hence to pine,
In this drear wilderness with me?

No!—in ecstatic rapture there
Thy Saviour and thy God adore,
While I in patience meekly bear
The cross by happier consort bore;
Soon will the last dread pang be o'er,
And soon the chains of earth shall sever;
We part—but not to meet no more,
We meet to part no more for ever,

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The town of Malton, is situated in the North Riding of the county of York, at the distance of two hundred and seventeen miles from London. It is divided into the Old and New Town, by a stone brid -e, over the river Derwent, which was made navigable to this place, and from thence to the river Ouse, in the first year of the reign of Queen Anne.

New Malton has been so called ever since the time of king Stephen, in whose reign it was rebuilt by Eustace Fitz-John; who also erected and endowed a priory for Gilbertine Canons, about the year 1150, at Old Malton, some remains of which may yet be seen. It was dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and its value at the time of the general dissolution was reckoned to be £197 19s. There was also a castle at Malton, in the reign of Henry the I., traces of which are still visible. The town, which is populous, contains three parish churches, is a borough by prescription, governed by a bailiff, and sends two members to parliament.— It had the honor to be represented in parliament by that celebrated statesman, the Hon. Edmund Burke. The spire of the church, seen in the above engraving, and which appears unfinished, was left in its present state through a dread of overbalancing the whole structure by its extreme ponderosity, had it been completed on the plan which the architect at first evidently intended. - o

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“It is not mere poetry to talk of the voices to summer.” It is the day time of the year, and its myriad influences are audibly at work. Even by night, you may lay your ear on the ground, and hear that faintest of murmurs, the sound of growing things. I used to think when I was a child, that it was fairy music. If you have been used to rising early, you have not forgotten how the stillness of the night seems increased by the timid note of the first bird. It is the only time when I would lay a finger on the lap of nature; the deep hush is so very solemn. By and by, however, the birds are all up, and the peculiar holiness of the hour declines. But what a world of music does the sun shine on . The deep lowing of cattle blending in with the capricious warble of a thousand of God's happy creatures, and the stir of industry coming on the air like the undertones of a choir, and the voices of men, heard in the distance over all, like a singer among instruments, giving them meaning and language! And then, if your ear be delicate, you have minded how all these sounds grew .. and sweeter, as the exhalations of dew floated up, and the vibrations loosened in the thin air.

T H E M O R N IN G A I R. There is something in the morning air that, while it defies the penetration of our proud and shallow philosophy, adds brightness to the blood, freshness to life, and vigor to the whole frame. The freshness of the lips, by the way, is, according to Dr. Marshall Hall, one of the

sure marks of health. If you would be well, therefore, if you would have your heart danc

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