alas! the old man was but a little while for this world. My infamous career soon bore his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. He bequeathed his fortune to a distant relative. At the time of his death I was a tenant of the alms house, being a victim of mania potu, and a maniac. For a long time I struggled with death, but I was yet young, and I finally recovered. My form was now emaciated, and my countenance ghastly. impossible it now seems that I should have steeled my heart against such persuasions; how impossible it seems that I could have gone forth after such a scene as this, and bathed my senses like a brute, in the debasing influence of intoxication. Would to Heaven that I could live over again my young life? Would that again I might hear the glad voice of my Amelia, and bask in the innocent smiles of her affection! Would I could call up the shade of my murdered sire,|| and weep away my shame and anguish in tears of blood! But in vain now is the an- My mind had somewhat recovered its forguish of my remorse; in vain did I repent of mer capacity, but as my reason floated back, early error, and invoke the past hours. oh! what dreadfully horrid images mingled It was probably three years after my mar-among my memories. I was the murderer riage that I became a bankrupt; the progress of my wife; I was a parracide-and my faof my debasement from that period was rapid. ther's living groans and malediction, seemed I gave myself completely up to intemperance. like an eternal knell in my ears. The intoxicating draught operated upon my I have toiled through twenty years moremind, like some bewildering species of in- have lived a life of the most appalling sufferfatuation. I was unable to resist its influence. ings and misery; and now, whilst I totter on I was unable to turn away from the tide of the brink of eternity, I am still a drunkard!! ignominy which was hurrying me to the vor- If ever a human being has suffered for the tex of destruction. My mind, though it did crime of drunkenness, that being am I. I not actually decay, seemed somewhat af have hesitated often as to launching myself fected with my body. My affections were be- into another world, but resolved to bear the numbed and torpid, and the sympathies of my || agony of my reflections and the horrors of my bosom held affinity with nothing but drink. present condition for fear of being plunged into a worse. Amid the most abject poverty, my wife shared my destiny. Bloated and distorted as were my features, she still imagined she saw in it traces of my early condition. And when in some fitful moment of remorse and sanity, I professed repentance; when, for a moment, I told her that my affection for her still lived; oh! what a flush of joy overspread the features of my poor Amelia; what a thrill of rapture seemed tingling through her veins, as she hoped to save me. Then she would tell me over all my prospects of retrieving my fortune; that I was yet young, that my father would receive me back into his confidence; that she would love me and cherish me; and then, for a moment melted and overcome, I would promise her to reform. But I could not. The curse was upon me, and in vain I endeavoured to shake it off. At last my poor wife grew sick; she bore up for a long season under her sufferings, but finally her heart broke and she died. I am a murderer! I feel as I linger on the confines of this world, that I murdered the wife of my bosom; I feel that I have sent my father in his old age with sorrow to his tomb. But oh! how I have suffered for my iniquities. Have I not, by living in squalid misery, in degradation, and in infamy, suffered more than a thousand deaths? Forgive, I beseech thee, O God, in this my last and mortal hour of anguish! Forgive me, sainted spirit, of my injured wife; and hallowed shadow of my murdered father. And ere I die, oh youth! whilst my soul is yet lingering in its mortal tenement, shun, oh-shun, I beseech you, the intoxicating bowl.-Old Dominion. HE WILL COME TO-MORROW. I always ride on the outside of a stage coach, from taste as well as from economybecause I love to see as much of the landscape as I possibly can; and I try to sit next to the coachman, because he knows not only to whom the seat we pass on the road belongs, but can sometimes tell interesting anecdotes of the owners themselves-so I am sure of being entertained on my journey, if so placed. Well, I was so fortunate on my last journey from London to C, as to get my favourite seat, and it was next to an unusually pleasing driver. I found he was a family man; had a wife he seemed fond of, and one child, a little boy, whom he was afraid of || losing, and as he saw that I sympathized in his feelings, he was the more disposed to gratify my curiosity. At length, after a very prosperous journey, we saw the abbey church of C in the distance, and we were not long in reaching the inn. When the coach was about to stop, my attention was drawn towards an elderly woman, meanly but neatly clad, who was looking up to the coach with an expression of anxious impatience in her eye, which forcibly interested me. vere man. of play than work, and his father was a sesoul! and he loved her dearly. But, not to His mother doated on him, poor be lengthy, when he was eighteen years old, poor Willy did something, I do not know what exactly, which put his father in a great rage, and in spite of his wife's tears and prayers, he struck his son, and turned him out of doors. I have always heard the poor lad did not deserve it; certain it is he was wrong in one thing; he told his father he saw him for the last time, for he would never come back to be struck again! and he enlisted directly, and left.C with the soldiers. "Oh! the agony of the poor father when he had slept on his rage, and rose the next morning! The poor mother had not slept at all, and they both went in search of their now pardoned son. But he was gone! and by a very affecting letter to his mother, they learned he was ordered to the West Indies; and they were not rich enough to effect his discharge! So he sailed, and it broke his father's heart. "On his death-bed he left loving messages and his blessing to his poor boy, and said he died of a broken heart, from the recollection of his harshness to him. The coachman saw her also, and, dashing away a tear, said "Ah! poor soul! there she is again, and there she has been every day for years, and now that I am a parent myself, and an anxious one too, I feel the more for her." This speech increased my interest in the poor woman, who, now that the coach had really stopped and the passengers were get-dered him home, as the only chance of life. ting down, drew quite close to the wheels, and looking up in the coachman's face with an expression which evidently unmanned him, said, in a hurried voice, “Is he come to-day ?" No, dear soul!" he replied, "but he will come to-morrow, you know!" 'Yes, yes, he will come to-morrow!" She then hurried down the street, followed by a respectable young woman who shook her head mournfully at the driver as she turned away. "Well, time went on, and the poor widowed mother might be said to live only for and in letters written by Willy, and every letter was full of love and piety. At last came a letter from him to say that he had been at death's door with a bad fever, and was so weak still, after it, that the medical men had or 66 66 I had paid all demands upon me, and might have gone in search of a place at N- but I could not stir till I had an explanation of what seemed so interesting to a sentimental traveller like myself, and I asked the coachman if I might speak a few words to him. "I see what you want to ask," he replied; "and as soon as I have done all my duty here, I will walk with you too the inn where the other coach starts from." I thought him a long time about his duty; but at last he joined me, and we walked down the street together. "You want to know all about that poor woman," said he. “Indeed || I do." "It is a sad story, sir. She and her husband, respectable little trades people, had one child, and a fine lad he was, more fond "Oh! I shall nurse him well again! the poor mother said, all fear lost in the delight of having him restored to her; and when the time came for the vessel's being due in which he sailed, busy as a bee was she in preparing for his coming. "At last he wrote to say he was landed, and he had almost recovered his health and strength on the voyage, and should be at Con such a day. That morning the poor mother went to the coach office, long before the hour announced for the approach of the stage. It came, but she could not see her son on the outside; perhaps he was in the inside, and she ran eagerly forward to look in at the window, but he was not there: 'Where is he? Where is my boy?' she cried to the driver, who had not as yet observed her. Now, sir, that driver was a good sort of a man enough, but he did not understand a parent's feelings, and what do you think he replied?—Your son! poor soul! he is not come indeed!' But he will come to-morrow, then; is there not a letter to say so?' 'No, mistress; your poor son will come no more! He fell off the coach coming from Portsmouth to London, and was killed on the spot!' In our last we gave several interesting particulars rela tive to the dying hours of Mr. Clark. But want of room compelled us to omit much that we desired to insert. We, therefore, now place before our readers some additional articles-the first of which we copy from the Saturday Courier of this city-which we have no doubt will be highly acceptible. There are so many touching and beautiful incidents lingering about the subject, that we feel a sad pleasure in their contemplation. "I, a little boy then, was present at this WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK. scene, and never shall I forget the shriek with which she repeated the word 'killed!' and then fell back, as if it struck her to the heart! She was carried home insensible, and we all thought she never would recover -but it was ordered otherwise. She recovered to life the next day, but not to reason; for the first words she uttered were, 'I must get up and dress myself, or I shall not get to the coach in time to meet Willy! And, finding she was able to dress herself, and walk as usual, her niece, who lived with her, "In the last Courier, we stated that our she whom you saw to-day, let her go out, and much respected, and now lamented brother she reached the coach as the horn blew. Oh! editor, WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, was dangerit was very affecting to see this poor be- ously ill. His spirit has quitted its clayey reaved creature go up to the coachman and tenement and winged its way to worlds unask him again if her son was come! The known, save to the soul of Faith. The driver that day was a neighbour of her's, and most potent enemy of man, Consumption, having heard the tale, he replied kindly and conquered his young frame, and in his 33d cleverly, 'No, he is not come to-day, but per- year he has passed away from earth. Clark haps he will come to-morrow.' 'Yes, yes,' was a prose writer of no mean pretensions, she replied with a smile that wrung the heart, and a poet of exceeding smoothness of fancy 'he will come to-morrow,' and away she hur- and purity of diction, and will be much missed ried. And, sir, she has come to the coach-in the world of light and pleasant literature. office and asked the same question, received His remains should rest in that "sweet and repeated the same answer, for, as I told garden-spot of the dead," rendered classic by you to-day, many, many years! But surely, his pen, where, in his own sweetly melansir, she does not suffer much, does she?" "Icholy and almost prophetic language, trust not," I replied, "and this hope, born of despair, is probably the merciful ordering of Divine Providence for her relief." "Ay, so I think," he replied, "but heaven bless you, sir! here is your coach, and it is now setting off." "I hope we shall meet again," I said, shaking him by the hand, and off we drove. SONG OVER A CHILD. BY BARRY CORNWALL. Dream, baby, dream! The stars are glowing; Till dawn to-morrow Why shouldst thou weep Who know'st not sorrow! "The lamented dead in dust shall lie, Mr. Clark departed this life at his residence, near Ronaldson's Cemetery, South Ninth street, on Saturday evening, June 12th. at 10 o'clock. He had expressed a wish to receive the Ordinance of Baptism, previous to his demise, which was administered in a most touching and feeling manner, by that eloquent divine, Dr. Ducachet. A few hours before his death, he expressed a strong desire to live long enough to see once more his twin brother, LEWIS GAYLORD CLARK, the well-known editor of the Knickerbocker Magazine. In this respect his heart was permitted to rejoice, for his brother arrived from our sister city of New York a short time previous to the moment when his spirit took its flight, (we have every reason to hope,) to the mansions of Eternal Bliss. He died filled with the blessed assurance of immortality beyond the grave. He expired with CHRISTIAN hope, lingering in eloquent expressions upon his quivering lips. This is indeed the "pearl of great price." He expressed, sometime previous to his death, much anxiety, that after he should pass away, his memory might escape any ruthless attack from the pen of malignity. The wish was uncalled for; for there is not a being in these States, who could have the ||heart to attack the memory of Willis Gay lord Clark. The grave covers all peculiarities -and though, when living, he wielded a pen of rebuke, which sometimes awakened a feeling of wrong, now that he is reposing by the side of his lamented and affectionate partner, who was buried in the grave-yard of St. Peter's Church, within these two years, there can be in the mind of none any recollection of aught but that which shall speak of his many virtues. His wife, the daughter of Robert A. Caldcleugh, Esq., of our city, died in the autumn of 1839, and he beautifully and feelingly pictured her early death, like the falling leaves of that expressive season-not thinking then that so soon it would fall to his lot to follow her (through the ravages of the same resistless disease,) to her final resting place on earth. It is but a few years since, that we met them both in a neighbouring city, the very morning after their wedding, buoyant with life and hope and joy--and now, so young, and so much mourned, both have passed away. They have left a sweet little boy, to inherit the fame of his father, and the clustering affections of her who gave him being-and it will surely be a pleasant reflection for the numerous friends of the departed Poet and Editor, that the grandfather of the boy, who is one of the most wealthy citizens of How soon will the visions of earth grow dimHow soon will its hopes be faded? And the hearts that have leaped to the syren's hymn, The feelings are fresh but a little while,- Then take thy rest in that shadowy hall, It will shine in glory when time is o'er Though sad winds wail in the cypress bough, In connection with this subject, we are constrained to give place to the following, as it is the most sublime tribute to the memory of the lamented HARRISON of all that we have seen. It is from the Philadelphia Gazette, and must have been written by Mr. Clark, when he was just upon the verge of the grave. THE RULER IS FALLEN! A nation has been smitten-a republic has been saddened by the fiat of a Power, to which none can give resistance, and the swaying of a sceptre which none can disown. Death, our city, has taken him home, with the just who, in the beautiful and expressive language purpose of rearing him with all the affection of the Latin poet, knocks with equal pace at and kindness which are so justly due to the the doors of cottages, or palaces of Kings, has memory of both his dear and devoted pa-his freezing kiss has emancipated a noble received the late President into his icy arms rents. THOU ART LAID TO REST. BY WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK. It will be perceived that the same strain of chastened sadness runs through the following beautiful lines as was observed in the "Lament," published in our last. Thou art laid to rest in the spring-time hours, Thou art slumbering now in a voiceless cell, Which was beaming with pleasure and youth but now. and benignant spirit-and that which but yesterday was the shrine of pure and patriotic aspirations-of warm love of country, and hopes for its happiness and honour, is now but palid and deserted dust, from which the life of life has fled forever! It is a picture of solemnity, of awe, and admonition; it teaches us the evanescence of human hopes, the futility of sublunary wishes-and tells us, loudly, and with awful emphasis, how worse than vain are the crlculations on the length of years and honours with which the eminent are so often as it were prescriptively invested. The King of Shadows loves a shining mark -and against such objects how often do his quickest and most fatal arrows hurtle! What we love, what we venerate, what we press to our bosoms, and wear in our hearts-how they bow to the mandate of "pass ye away!" Our fathers, where are they? and the prophets, do they live forever? No language can describe the sorrowful consternation, the profound regret, which will pervade the Union, as the intelligence of the death of its late President spreads far and wide. It will pass through the vast west, like the sound of a mighty Oak, falling in the stillness of the forest; the steamers as they plough along our mighty rivers, will bear with them the emblems of mourning-and an| My happy home was before me, which never universal sadness, like the clouds that herald forth the imminent tempest, will spread itself over the whole mass of the nation, from the dark streams of Maine to the waters of Mexico. Death has sought out and smitten a lofty victim; there is sack-cloth in the high places, and wailing through the land. "Not glittering line Of guards in pompous mail arrayed, Or covered trench, secure and deep- When thou dost battle in thy wrath, Written for the Ladies' Garland. DREAMING OF HOME. BY MISS F. A. G. The sun was fast sinking in the west, shedding its golden rays over hill and dale, as I sat down by my window, to amuse myself a short time by reading a poem. I read some time with much interest. But at length finding myself weary, I laid the volume aside and was soon absorbed in deep meditation. Before I was aware sleep insensibly stole upon me. looked more lovely than at that moment. The flowers looked fairer, the birds sung more sweetly, and the two tall poplars, that stood in front of the house, bent more gracefully as I gazed on the scene. I soon arrived at the little rivulet that wound its way through the grass a few steps from my father's house. I hastily crossed the rustic bridge, with a heart beating with pleasure, at the thoughts of meeting my parents and the companions of my youth. But alas! just as my fond anticipations were to be realized I awoke in disappointment to find it was but a dream, a mere illusion of the fancy that had quickly fled and left nothing but the cruel sting of disappointed hope behind. And while meditating on my dream and its results, I could but reflect on the vanity of this world's short lived pleasures. The youth, elated with hope and the bright prospects before him, enters upon the various scenes of life with the vain expectation of finding in the pleasures of the world that peace and happiness, which the immortal mind of man desires. His dreams are stored with the bright images of fancy. He gathers the blooming flowers, but they wither in his hands. He is always just ready to embrace happiness, but awakes from the visions of the imagination before hope is blest with fruition. Says the poet "This life's a dream." It is a dream, from which we shall be aroused by the approach of death, and the awful realities of the eternal world will burst upon our view. May we all be prepared for the glories of that better land where the vision will speak, and For the Ladies' Garland.' TO AN INFANT, SMILING WHEN ASLEEP. "When children smile while sleeping, they see angels." Nursery Tales. Those celestial spirits, in brightness array'd?- I fancied myself slowly wandering over an extensive and beautiful meadow, covered with green grass, which was gently waved by the light breeze as it swept along. I walked on until I came to the bounds of the field, which was separated from the adjoining for-not deceive. est, by a small stream that seemed to be an arm of some more powerful river. Wandering on the banks of this stream a few moments I discovered a narrow foot-path, which curiosity impelled me to enter. I had not proceeded far, however, before the surround- Do they visit thy slumbers, thou beautiful one! ing scenery appeared familiar. The rush of waters and the roaring of the distant waterfall, I distinctly heard, and I soon realized myself on the romantic shore of the beautiful Orieskena; yes, it was the same sylvan retreat where I had so often strayed on a summer's evening in search of flowers, which grew in wild luxuriance on the margin of the river. Again I plucked the sweet flowers, and again I sat down on a mossy seat beneath the refreshing shade of the willow tree, and gazed long and silently on the water, which May thy spirit at last find the "straight narrow way,” one moment rippled in gentle murmurs at my feet, and the next dashed along in foaming waves. At length I thought I would retrace my steps back to the meadow. I accordingly did so, and soon came in sight of my father's mansion. I gazed around with rapture on the beloved scenery of my childhood and youth. "into oblivion. Pure, even as angel's, and priceless its worth, Wilt find there are sorrows and sin upon earth. Howe'er thou art tempted, how e'er thou may'st stray, How bitter soever the suffering given, That shall join it forever with angels in Heaven. He that is loudly praised, will be clamourously censured. He that rises hastily into fame, will be in danger of sinking suddenly |