whether in nature or art, is reflected in her writings with a halo of beauty thrown about it by her own fancy; and thus presented, it appeals to our sympathies and awakens an interest which carves it upon the memory in letters of gold. But she has yet loftier claims to respect than a poetical nature. She is a philosopher, and, better still, a religious philosopher. Every page presents to us scraps of wisdom, not pedantically put forth, as if to attract admiration, but thrown out by the way in seeming unconsciousness, and as part of her ordinary thoughts."

MARIUS.

Suggested by a painting by Vanderlyn, of Marius seated among the ruins of Carthage.

Pillars are fallen at thy feet,
Fanes quiver in the air,
A prostrate city is thy seat-
And thou alone art there.

No change comes o'er thy noble brow,
Though ruin is around thee,
Thine eye-beam burns as proudly now,
As when the laurel crowned thee.

It cannot bend thy lofty soul,

Though friends and fame depart;
The car of fate may o'er thee roll,
Nor crush thy Roman heart.

And Genius hath electric power,

Which earth can never tame;

Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower-
Its flash is still the same.

The dreams we loved in early life

May melt like mist away;

High thoughts may seem, 'mid passion's strife,

Like Carthage in decay.

And proud hopes in the human heart

May be to ruin hurled,

Like mouldering monuments of art

Heaped on a sleeping world.

Yet there is something will not die,
Where life hath once been fair;

Some towering thoughts still rear on high,
Some Roman lingers there!

LINES

On hearing a Boy mock the sound of a Clock in a Church-Steeple, as it runs the hour of twelve.

Aye, ring thy shout to the merry hours:

Well may ye part in glee;

From their sunny wings they scatter flowers,

And, laughing, look on thee.

Thy thrilling voice has started tears:

It brings to mind the day

When I chased butterflies and years-
And both flew fast away.

Then my glad thoughts were few and free;
They came but to depart,

And did not ask where heaven could be-
'Twas in my little heart.

I since have sought the meteor crown,
Which fame bestows on men:
How gladly would I throw it down,
To be so gay again!

But youthful joy has gone away;
In vain 'tis now pursued ;
Such rainbow glories only stay
Around the simply good.

I know too much to be as blessed
As when I was like thee:

My spirit, reasoned into rest,

Has lost its buoyancy.

Yet still I love the winged hours:

We often part in glee

And sometimes, too, are fragrant flowers
Their farewell gifts to me.

A STREET SCENE.

The other day, as I came down Broome Street, I saw a street musician playing near the door of a genteel dwelling. The organ was uncommonly sweet and mellow in its tones, the tunes were slow and plaintive, and I fancied that I saw in the woman's Italian face an expression that indicated sufficient refinement to prefer the tender and the melancholy to the lively

"trainer tunes" in vogue with the populace. She looked like one who had suffered much, and the sorrowful music seemed her own appropriate voice. A little girl clung to her scanty garments, as if afraid of all things but her mother. As I looked at them, a young lady of pleasing countenance opened the window, and began to sing like a bird, in keeping with the street organ. Two other young girls came and leaned on her shoulder; and still she sang on. Blessings on her gentle heart! It was evidently the spontaneous gush of human love and sympathy. The beauty of the incident attracted attention. A group of gentlemen gradually collected round the organist; and ever as the tune ended, they bowed respectfully toward the window, waved their hats, and called out, "More, if you please!" One, whom I knew well for the kindest and truest soul, passed round his hat; hearts were kindled, and the silver fell in freely. In a minute, four or five dollars were collected for the poor woman. She spoke no word of gratitude, but she gave such a look! "Will you go to the next street, and play to a friend of mine?" said my kind-hearted friend. She answered, in tones expressing the deepest emotion: "No, sir, God bless you all; God bless you all," (making a courtesy to the young lady, who had stepped back, and stood sheltered by the curtain of the window;) "I will play no more to-day; I will go home, now." The tears trickled down her cheeks, and, as she walked away, she ever and anon wiped her eyes with the corner of her shawl. The group of gentlemen lingered a moment to look after her, then, turning toward the now closed window, they gave three enthusiastic cheers, and departed, better than they came. The pavement on which they stood had been a church to them; and for the next hour, at least, their hearts were more than usually prepared for deeds of gentleness and mercy. Why are such scenes so uncommon? Why do we thus repress our sympathies, and chill the genial current of nature, by formal observances and restraints?

UNSELFISHNESS.

I found the Battery unoccupied, save by children, whom the weather made as merry as birds. Everything seemed moving to the vernal tune of

"Brignal banks are fresh and fair,
And Gretna woods are green."

To one who was chasing her hoop, I said, smiling, "Yon are a nice little girl." She stopped, looked up in my face, so rosy and happy, and laying her hand on her brother's shoulder, exclaimed earnestly, "And he is a nice little boy, too!" It was a simple, child-like act, but it brought a warm gush into my heart. Blessings on all unselfishness! on all that leads us in love to prefer one another. Here lies the secret of universal harmony; this is the diapason which would bring us all into tune. Only by losing ourselves can we find ourselves. How clearly does the divine voice within us proclaim this, by the hymn of joy it sings, whenever we witness an unselfish deed, or hear an unselfish thought. Blessings on that loving little one! She made the city seem a garden to me. I kissed my hand to her, as I turned off in quest of the Brooklyn ferry. The sparkling waters swarmed with boats, some of which had taken a big ship by the hand, and were leading her out to sea, as the prattle of childhood often guides wisdom into the deepest and broadest thought.

POLITENESS.

In politeness, as in many other things connected with the formation of character, people in general begin outside, when they should begin inside; instead of beginning with the heart, and trusting that to form the manners, they begin with the manners, and trust the heart to chance influences. The golden rule contains the very life and soul of politeness. Children may be taught to make a graceful courtesy, or a gentlemanly bow; but, unless they have likewise been taught to abhor what is selfish, and always prefer another's comfort and pleasure to their own, their politeness will be entirely artificial, and used only when it is their interest to use it. On the other hand, a truly benevolent, kind-hearted person will always be distinguished for what is called native politeness, though entirely ignorant of the conventional forms of society.

BEAUTY.

Perhaps there is no gift with which mortals are endowed, that brings so much danger as beauty, in proportion to the usefulness and happiness it produces. It is so rare for a belle

to be happy, or even contented, after the season of youth is past, that it is considered almost a miracle. If your daughter is handsome, it is peculiarly necessary that she should not be taught to attach an undue importance to the dangerous gift; and if she is plain, it certainly is not for her happiness to consider it as a misfortune.

It certainly is natural to admire beauty, whether it be in human beings, animals, or flowers; it is a principle implanted within the human mind, and we cannot get rid of it. Beauty is the outward form of goodness; and that is the reason we love it instinctively, without thinking why we love it. The truth is, beauty is really of some consequence; but of very small consequence compared with good principles, good feelings, and good understanding. In this manner children ought to hear it spoken of. There should be no affected indifference on this or any other subject. If a child say, "Everybody loves Jane Snow she is so pretty;" I would answer, Is Jane Snow a good, kind little girl? I should be pleased with her pretty face, and should want to kiss her, when I first saw her; but if I found she was cross and selfish, I should not love her; and I should not wish to have her about me." In this way the attention will be drawn from the subject of beauty, to the importance of goodness; and there is no affectation in the business-the plain truth is told. We do love beauty at first sight; and we do cease to love it, if it is not accompanied by amiable qualities.

OLD AGE.

Childhood itself is scarcely more lovely than a cheerful, kind, sunshiny old age.

How I love the mellow sage,

Smiling through the veil of age!
And whene'er this man of years
In the dance of joy appears,
Age is on his temples hung,

But his heart-his heart is young!

Here is the great secret of a bright and green old age. When Tithonus asked for an eternal life in the body, and found, to his sorrow, that immortal youth was not included in the bargain, it surely was because he forgot to ask the perpetual gift of loving and sympathizing.

Next to this, is an intense affection for nature, and for all simple things. A human heart can never grow old, if it takes