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morrow. On this occasion she wishes the presence of her old and early friends.” I accepted the invitation. The next morning dawned as clear as the preceding evening had promised. As I walked out to enjoy its freshness, I met my “Annette is ill,” said he. “She exposed herself to the damp and dews in her walk last evening, and is now threatened with fever.” It proved more than a threat. A violent fever had seized upon her. Night after night, and hour after hour, her mother sat at her bedside, watching the progress of the disease, ministering to her wants, and, the hardest task of all, wearing a smiling face, lest the increasing despondency of her own heart should alarm her child. There is something of sublimity in this trait of female character—this deep, enduring tenderness of a mother's love. With man, even when the object is one of his deepest and dearest regard, there is a limit beyond which he cannot pass; when exhausted nature will claim repose; when the weary frame will sink, and the drooping eyelid close. It is in this moment of weakness that woman first puts forth her strength;-that the frame so feeble and delicate as to shrink before the breeze, and bow beneath the dewdrop, rises at once in its deep, strong energy;-through nights of watching, and days of despair, unbent by fatigue without, unsubdued by the bitterness within—offering the language of hope amid the hidden anguish of an aching heart, anguish more deep, more bitter, because it may not be uttered—turning in for strength and support to the inexhaustible fountains of her own deep affection—and with the fabled devotion of the pelican, nourishing her offspring again from the warm lifeblood of her own self-sacrificing heart. Meanwhile, triumphing over every remedy, the deadly disease went on. None but they who have witnessed it, can picture the intense earnestness with which the anxious "mother watched the countenance of the physician; while day after day he felt the almost fluttering pulse, as if in his eye she could read the fiat of life or death; and none but they who have felt it, can tell the sinking, sickening of the heart, as that inquiring look, read but too plainly, “there is no hope.” But Annette was not deceived; and though she long forbore to allude to her situation, lest she should add to the distress of her friends, she at length ventured to speak freely. “It is not,” she said, addressing the three individuals who were dearest to her, “it is not so hard to die. I know my Redeemer liveth, and that the silken tie is not severed forever.” “For you,” she said, addressing her lover, “you will not forget her memory, who to the last will so love yours. Death seals the

vow, that our hearts and our lips but pledged; and though we meet not as we would have met, we are in the hands of Him who judgeth wisely. You should have been a son to my parents; for my sake be so still. They will soon be childless. If you love my memory, love them.” Then addressing her parents— “If in the course of life I have sometimes erred, and who has not! if I have ever cost you a pang, or a tear, forgive me. I do not ask you sometimes to think of your child; I fear you will remember her but too well. But be not unhappy—remember we meet again.”

When I called the next morning to inquire after her health, I was received at the door by her father. He took my hand in silence, and leading me to an apartment, pointed to a coffin. It bore the name and age of his daughter. I watched the expression of his countenance, and his lip quivered, and his voice faltered as he said, “she has left us now, but God's will be done.” His emotion was but momentary; and he again stood in calm and dignified composure at my side. I regarded him with astonishment and reverence. Friend after friend had gone; hope after hope had withered; the strong link that had grappled his spirit to the earth, was now broken; and he stood unbent by the storm that had laid his last earthly hope in the dust. His soul seemed to rise in its strength as affliction weighed more heavily on it—to tower in its majesty above the darkness below, to dwell in the light of its eternal hopes, as the mountain lifts its head above the clouds below, into the pure light above.

There is something peculiarly sad in thus visiting the deserted places of those whom we love; every object awakening anew some melancholy remembrances, calling up the bitter and unutterable groan from the silent sanctuary within. In one place lay Annette's work, another her chair; here her music, there her books; and when we sat down in the lonely apartment, how strongly did that very loneliness remind us, that here was indeed the deepest solitude—the solitude of desolate and broken hearts. Alas! the chain of affection clings but more closely to us, when its last link binds us to the grave.

The mother's was the grief of a mother. The lover was calm and tranquil—but it was the calmness of despair. When we had arrived at the churchyard, we alighted. The mother, with the yearnings of a mother's heart, would descend into the tomb to see where her child was laid. I saw her involuntarily grasp the arm of an assistant, as the coffin was slightly turned to facilitate its entrance, as if fearing it would disturb her child. That repose, alas! was too deep to be broken. Her lover | followed.

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Her father alone seemed unsubdued by the blow. Strong in the practice of the faith he had preached, the polar star of his hopes was on high. And though the pale cheek and faltering voice proclaimed at times that the spirit was wrestling with the strong feelings of nature, they served but as a more beautiful comment on that religion, which could so extract its bitterness from the sting of death; and never did that humble prayer, “Thy will be done,” flow from a sincerer spirit, than from that of that childless man. In the hour of trial he had applied his heart unto wisdom. So teach me to number my days.

Under the beautiful shade of a large elm, is the tomb where Annette reposes. Years have now elapsed, and wild flowers and sweetbriar have sprung on the spot. There the shrubs are distilling the morning dews; the flowers are breathing their fragrance, and the wild rose is shedding its leaves, and tears of affection and respect still consecrate the holy ground.

P A SSAGES IN H U MAN LIFE. BY WILLIAM HoWITT.

In my daily walks into the country, I was accustomed to pass a certain cottage. It was no cottage orne—it was no cottage of romance. It had nothing particularly picturesque about it. It had its little garden, and its vine spreading over its front; but beyond these it possessed no feature to fix it in the mind of the poet, or a novel writer, and which might induce him to people it with beings of his own fancy. In fact it appeared to be inhabited by persons as little extraordinary as itself. A good man of the house it might possess, but he was never visible. The only inmates that I eversaw, were a young woman and another female in the wane of life, no doubt the mother. The damsel was a comely, fresh, mild looking cottage girl enough—always seated in one spot—near the window, intent upon her needle. The old dame was as regularly busied, to and fro, in household affairs. She appeared one of those good housewives, who never dream of rest except in sleep. The cottage stood so near the road, that the fire at the farther end of the room, showed you without being rudely inquisitive, the whole interior, in the single moment of passing. A clean hearth and cheerful fire shining upon homely but neat and orderly furniture, spoke of comfort; but whether the dame enjoyed, or merrily diffused that comfort, was a problem. I passed the house many successive days. It was always alike, the fire shining brightly

and peacefully—the girl seated at her post by the window—the housewife going to and fro, catering and contriving, dusting and managing. One morning as I went by, there was a change; the dame was seated near her daughter, her arms laid upon the table, and her head upon her arms. I was sure that it was sickness which had compelled her to that attitude of repose—nothing less could have done it. I felt that I knew exactly the poor woman's feelings. She had felt a weariness stealing upon her—she wondered at it, and bore up hoping it would pass by—till loath as she was to yield, it had forced submission. The next day, when I passed, the room appeared as usual—the fire burning pleasantly, the girl at her needle, but the mother was not to be seen, and on glancing my eye

upward I perceived the blind close drawn in .

the window above. It is so, said I to myself, disease is in its progress. Perhaps it occa-2. sions no gloomy fear of consequences, no ex-" treme concern—and yet who knows how it . may end? It is thus that begin those changes that draw out the central bolt which holds together families—which steal away our fireside faces and lay waste our affections. I passed by day after day. The scene was the same—the fire burning, the hearth beaming clean and cheerful, but the mother was not to be seen;–the blind was still drawn above. At length I missed the girl—and in her place appeared another woman bearing considerable resemblance to the mother, but of a queerer habit. lt was easy to interpret This change: disease had assumed an alarming aspect—the daughter was occupied in intense watchings, and care for the suffering mother —and the good woman's sister had been summoned to her bedside, perhaps from a distant spot, and perhaps from her family cares; which a no less important event could have induced her to elude. Thus appearances continued some days. There was a silence around the house, and an air of neglect within it, till, one morning, I beheld the blind drawn in the room below, and the window thrown open above. The scene was over—the mother was removed from her family, and one of those great changes effected in human life which commences with so little observation, but leave behind such lasting effects.

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ORFAH, a town of Asiatic Turkey, in the province of Diarbekir, is supposed by some to have been the Ur of the Chaldees. The Greeks give it the name of the Edessa; and in honor of Antiochus it was called Antiochia; which was distinguished from others of the same name, by the famous fountain Callirhoe, and denominated Antiocha ad Callirhoen. Orfah is built upon two hills, and upon the valley between them, at the south-west corner of a fine plain, rendered more beautiful by the rocky mountainous parts that surround it. It

Mosque of Abraham.

- is about three miles in circuit, encompassed by ancient walls, and defended by square towers. On the north side is a deep fosse, and the castle stands on a hill to the south. Although | the town is not well laid out, parts of it are well built. Its chief beauty consists in some fine springs, that rise between the two hills, and even in the walls of the city. The ascent to - -

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the castle is very steep, and on three sides of it there is a deep fosse. It is half a mile in circumference, and has two Corinthian pillars, the capitals of which are admired; the columns consist of twenty-six stones, each about one foot six inches thick. They are probably the remains of a porticó belonging to some large temple. According to tradition the throne of Nimrod stood on these pillars. It is certain, however, that Timur Bec erected some trophies on them. On the bank of this lake stands the Mosque of Abraham, the most splendid and regular edifice of the kind in Asiatic Turkey. It is a square building, surmounted by three domes, and a lofty minaret rising from amidst a grove of tall cypresses. Every place of consequence in the city bears some relation to the name of Abraham. The inhabitants are well-bred, polite and tolerant, and the place is said to be the most agreeable residence in all the Turkish dominions. Orfah is the residence of a pacha, who commands not only the greatest part, if not the whole of Macedonia, but a considerable tract of country to the west of it, as far as Antab. As it is the great thoroughfare into Persia, it carries on an immense trade. The Armenian Christians, of whom there is a considerable number, have two churches, one in the city and another near it, in the latter of which they show the tomb of a great saint whom they call Ibrahim, and who was probably Ephraim Syrus, formerly deacon of Edessa. The surrounding country is fertile in corn and fruit. This town was first taken by the Saracens in 1087; retaken by the Christians in 1097, and in 1142 it was seized by the Turks, who have ever since retained possession of it. Population about 100,000.

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It was a lovely morning in May, and the sun shone through the interstices of my latticed window with its brightest splendor, I awoke from a restless sleep, to be cheered by the brightening face of nature. The dewdrops hung sparkling from the little flowers my own hand had nurtured under my window. The little linnet from his wiry prison in the old hall poured his blithest lay, while the music of the merry songsters without, filled the quiet air of morning with the wildest melody. Every object wore a pleasant aspect; and why, I thought, should I not share in the general joy! . A vague and indistinct recollection of what had transpired the night

past, impressed me with the belief that one of my fondest wishes was about to be realized. I had been an only child, and every thing conducive to my comfort and happiness was bestowed upon me by indulgent parents; but for all this I felt lonely. I could not rear my flowers, or perform any other puerile employment, because there was no one to share with me. There was to me a chasm which could only be filled up by the presence of a brother or a sister. This was my sole thought by night and day; but when I awoke this morning, I felt convinced that something had occurred beyond the ordinary course of household affairs. I was about rising to dress myself, and ascertain the truth of my surmises, when the door gently opened and the old nurse entered, bearing one of the sweetest cherubs that eyes everlooked upon. Isprang from my bed in the ecstasy of the moment— pressed its beating bosom to my own,

“And felt in that long, fond embrace, "Twere sin to make us part.”

O, I was so happy. A little brother! He should join in all my amusements, said I to myself; and my mind pictured glowingly the bright moments of bliss which childhood only experiences. I recall them at this distant day as oasises in the desert of life. I felt a new existence then, and I could say in the language of another,

“The summer webs that float and shine, The summer dews that fall;

Though light they be, this heart of mine Is lighter than them all."

II." THE CHRISTENING.

As was customary in our family, the next evening we had what is termed a “Christening party.” All the beauty and fashion of our village were present to take part in the ceremony. I arranged my toilet with the most scrupulous exactness, and took as much pains as possible to appear well. My heart throbbed with the wildest delight. Every thing appeared happy to me because I was so! How different are my feelings now! Age subdues the heartless levity of youth, and the erratic mind becomes sobered to a sense of reality. The more we advance in years, the more studious we become to the advancement of our interests, and many incidents connected with our younger days appear foolish; but we can forgive all in a child 1

The company were arranged in order, and the infant brought in. The one at the head first took the child and kissed it, at the same time putting a beautiful chain of beads around its neck. It was then passed to the next,

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one bestowing upon it some present. Some twined a wreath of flowers around its head, others fastened rings upon his fingers, or a brooch upon his breast. I never saw so lovely a creature as that child, when its father took it to his arms. Decked as it was in all the finery of which the most wealthy could boast, it seemed more the habitant of a brighter and a better world, than this frail earth. Names

were suggested and discarded, until my mo

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ther sent in word, being still confined to her bed, that she had hit upon a name, which, if it met with the universal approbation, should be decided upon. It was Augustus—a common name; but it sounded sweet to me then! Even now it seems to linger upon my lips as with a spell. All liked the name, and my father accordingly proclaimed it christened. The company then repaired to an adjoining room, and we all sat down to a delicious repast. The principal conversation at table was concerning the little hero; all were loud in its praise, but none more enthusiastic than myself. I felt that it was childish in me, but who has not experienced the same feeling! All who have passed the sunny days of childhood beneath a father's roof, surrounded by brothers and sisters, happy in their innocence, can appreciate my enjoyments at that time, when I looked forward with hope and joy to the future. I was dead to the present, save of the existence of that one being. The repast being over, the company dispersed one by one to their several homes, and all became quiet throughout the house. The

subject of the meeting was delivered to its

joyful mother, and I retired to rest that night with a blither step and more buoyant heart

than I had ever before known.

III. THE BUDDING FLOWER.

When our time passes in pleasure, we take no note of the swiftness of its flight; and many, things that claim our attention, are passed unheeded by. It was so with me. I could have employed my leisure hours in instilling into that young heart the principles of a divine religion. But I confess I had never experienced a regeneration myself. I taught Augustus when he first lisped, to pronounce my name. It thrilled through my frame to hear it! Our parents observed the affection I had for the child, and strengthened the link their own gentle admonitions. But a stronger than earthly tie bound us indissolubly together. Our child was taken sick, and althoug the disease was not very alarming, yet it set me to thinking. It was well for me that my course was checked in some measure. I had never thought of the parting hour, which was eventually to come. I had

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marred by anguish and pain; but I was taught = to consider that an Omnipotent arm sheltered us both, and could withdraw us from life at his will. Yet my brother survived and my happiness returned. He now began to walk, and he soon learned to prattle the little nursery songs that I taught him. I felt happier than ever at this achievement. I conducted him to all the haunts I once frequented alone; taught him to rear flowers, to feed the linnet, and assist in all the childish pastimes I had before indulged in. How sweetly he would rest his blue eye upon me when I seated him in his little carriage, and drew him around the gravel walks! There was all beauty and loveliness in his damask cheek and ruby lip; the beauty seemed to increase with years. I often thought that frail flower too delicate to live. The breath of a heartless world seemed to contaminate him, and I shuddered at the fantasy my mind conjured up, when his fine open countenance, so expressive of love, innocence, and truth, rested on me. In hearing his merry laugh, and witnessing his gambols upon the grass plat in front of the house, my mind was gradually relieved of its load of evil presentiment.

IV. The PASTIME.

Three years passed over our heads since Augustus was born, in one varied round of heartfelt enjoyment to me. The rest of my existence was a blank. A new era seemed to have commenced with his birth. It was like a continued serene sky, unsullied, save at some moments of reflection, by a passing cloud. His annual birthday celebration had passed and the winter months were approaching. This would suspendour out-door amusements for a season, and I began to look about me for some agreeable recreation in which to spend the long evenings. I had been allowed by our parents to decide heretofore in such matters, but here father inter

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posed. He thought to blend instruction with

enjoyment, that I should read and learn my brother chapters in the Bible, that the truths contained therein might be early impressed on his mind. This I found beneficial for us both. Young as I then was, I felt the truth of what I read; and it is with pleasure 1 revert to that season when the light of religion, which was of so much solace to me in after years, dawned upon me. To render what we learned more explicit, father explained it to us; and I think I spent my time more happily then than I ever did before. Augustus learned to read very fast; and we expected the next spring to go hand in hand to school; but that time he never lived to see. O, that I should have to write what must follow! Exposure to the

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