altered! His head was prematurely white, and his shed their lustre upon me, the words of Lorenzo face though calm, told, in the beautiful words of to his Jessica in the Merchant of Venice. Chapin, that

'Death was at work in his manhood's hour.'

Yet was the minister composed. His discourse was
chaste and beautiful, and occasionally impassioned.
I know not why I, should have entertained such
a thought, but I did, that the churchyard of
was to be the resting place of Henry Norman. I
had, when wandering from the spot of my birth, I
and the haunts of my boyhood's hours, prayed that
I might die among the friends of my youth, and be
buried amid the scenes of my happier hours. I
have wept often over those touching lines of
Goldsmith,

'In all my wanderings round this world of care;
In all my griefs-and God has given my share-
I still had hopes, my latest hour to crown,
Amid these humble bowers to lay me down.
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return-and die at home at last.'

And I thought at that moment, poor Norman, you too
have felt that same feeling; and you have returned
to reap the fruition of your hopes.

"Look how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;
There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest,
But in his motion, like an angel sings,

Still quivering to the young-eyed cherubims,
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But while this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."

found myself, ere I was aware of it, entering the gate of the churchyard. Perhaps, under other feelings, or on any other night, I would have chosen some other promenade-but the dead I feared not— and a Sabbath stillness rested upon the tombs. I had not advanced very far before I was startled by a groan. At first I gave way to a thrill of superstitious feeling; but quickly banishing the impression, I followed the direction of the sound, and before me, at some little distance, discovered a black mass upon a grave! The truth flashed upon my mind in an instant-It was the grave of Mary Neville, and Henry Norman was there!

I rushed to the spot, and took hold of him. As I raised him up I felt a warm fluid flowing copiously over my hands! Oh God! he had broken a blood vessel in his agony, and was bleeding to death! I called for help, and in a few minutes had the satisfaction of seeing the sexton and his son with their lanterns approaching.

Norman spoke to them, and to me-he told me not to remove him as he was dying fast, and wished to die where he was.

I saw he avoided, when the congregation were dispersing, leaving the church by the altar gate; so hurrying round to the door of the vestry room, I met him, and reminded him that we had been schoolboys together; and that asked or not, I intended to dine with him at the Parsonage. He pressed me to do so, and locking arms with himself and Mr. Villars, I accompanied them home. He seemed communicative; spoke of many per- "I have prayed," said he, " for this hour! When sons he had known, and inquired after them. far, far away from my boyhood's home, I have been length he asked, and I saw his lip quiver as he did, laid upon the bed of sickness, wrestling with a after Mrs. Neville-I told him she had gone to re-giant-energy against disease, and when a single side with a brother in another State. He said nothing more on the subject, and in an hour or so I retired.

At

'Twas midnight, and Heaven was eloquent with stars. In the soft and subduing words of Mrs. Crawford, they seemed to be telling

Many a touching story,

plank has been between the dark waters of the ocean and me, and hopeless wretches around me were buffeting the wild billows, shrieking in their agony, I have gathered superhuman energy, and, breasting the waves, I have fastened myself to a spar, and been saved. I feared not death—it had long since lost its sting-but oh, I wished to be laid beside my Mary. You will find my will in my trunk. Oh I see, said he, as his voice grew fainter and fainter, and the beautiful past come on in The winds whispered among the drooping flowers, panoramic beauty-the birds are singing—the green and seemed hymning a sad sweet roundelay amid leaves and the sweet flowers are rustling in the the thick foliage of the trees. I could not sleep; breeze, and I am again standing beside the murI arose and looked from my window. Night, muring stream where our young vows were first seemed, in the beautiful language of our own plighted. God bless you, let me sleep here beside my Mary-we loved, we"-his voice failed-he was dead!

Of friends long past to the kingdom of love,
Where the soul wears its mantle of glory.'

Mellen

'Bending from her throne of beauty down, With still stars burning on her azure crownIntense, and eloquently bright.'

I dressed myself, and walked forth. It was an hour calculated to awaken the soul to the beauty of Nature, and the beneficence of the Creator! and unconsciously I uttered, as I gazed up in to the deep blue heavens, at the far-off glories that

I will not dwell-the body was interred in due time by the side of his Virgin Bride, and above their grave a stone was reared, which recording their birth and death, bore upon it that touching inscription from the word of God

"Lovely and pleasant were they in life,
And in death they were not divided."

On opening the will it was found that he had but | While borne upon the lip, and pen is thy own gifted name-little of this world's goods-a few thousand dollars, Yet golden-hued was once the thread that wove my hopes and this was divided between the Bible Society And fair the wreath in Learning's bower we did together and Mrs. Neville.

In a few months after Norman's decease, Mrs. Neville herself paid the debt to nature, and was placed near the grave of her loved ones.

I left the village about a year after the event. But I can never forget the past. I often think of Henry Norman and Mary Neville-and when II behold, with the eye of Memory, the church spire and the white tombs, I sigh at the recollection of the sad destinies of Henry Norman and his bride. Yet why should I sigh? Why should I pronounce theirs a sad destiny?

They dread no storm that lowers,
No perished joys bewail;
They pluck no thorn-clad flowers,
Nor drink of streams that fail;
There is no tear-drop in their eye,
Nor change upon their brow;
Their placid bosoms heave no sigh,
Though all earth's idols bow."*

Mrs. Sigourney.

Petersburg, Va. 1841.

with thine,

twine.

And canst thou with this memory, now turn thy step aside,

Because my path is dark, and drear, and thine is one of
pride?

Thou hadst a noble, generous heart, and I will not believe
That thou so coldly hast resolv'd those old ties to unweave;
bethink me of the candor, and faith, that mark'd thy youth,
The open brow, the trusting smile, and I do not doubt thy
Truth!

Then come, and tell me thou art not of those gay butterflies,
Who flutter round, while they can bask in the warmth of
sunny skies;

Come tell me thou art still the same, and hast not quite forgot The early friendship that we vow'd, ere sorrow cross'd my lot;

The pleasant memories of our youth throng round this heart

of mine,

And by those memories, dear friend, I trust that heart of thine.

Eames' Place, July 1841.

STANZAS.

TO A LONG-SEPARATED FRIEND.

BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

SIR WALTER RALEGH.

From Oldy's Life of Sir Walter Ralegh prefixed to 'Re legh's History of the World.'

"Her majesty [Queen Elizabeth,] meeting (says my author*), with a plashy place, made some seruple to go on, when Ralegh (dress'd in the gay and genteel habits of these times) presently cast off When fortune's bark no longer floats on a prosperous tide? and spread his new plush cloak on the ground,

Art thou, too, of the number, of those who turn aside

Art thou among those summer friends, who throng when life is fair,

whereon the Queen trod gently over, rewarding But shun the scene when darken'd by adversity and care? him afterwards with many suits, for his so free and Who cannot see us through the clouds, that o'er our path-seasonable tender of so fair a foot-cloth." way lower,

Nor stand the mildew damps that dim misfortune's troubled

Sir Walter, when he was hoping for preferment at the hand of the Queen, wrote on a glass window,

"Fain would I elimb, yet fear I to fall." The Queen shortly after, wrote,

"If thy heart fail thee, climb not at all."

"Being at Leeds, in Yorkshire, soon after, Mr. I saw his Museum, and in it among his other rariRalph Thoresby the antiquary, died Anno 1725. ties what himself has publickly call'd (in the catalogue thereof annex'd to his antiquities of that town) Sir Walter Ralegh's tobacco-box: From the best of my memory, I can resemble it's outward appearance to nothing more nearly, than one of our modern Muff-cases; about the same height and width covered with red leather and open'd at In the inside there was a cavity, for a receiver of top (but with a hinge I think) like one of those. glass or metal, which might hold half a pound or a pound of tobacco, and from the edge of the receiver at top to the edge of the box, a circular

* Fuller's Worthies.

And the iron hath enter'd, indeed;

Yet thousands, yea, thousands have risen in thy stead.
Thy glory is vanish'd, but thy spirit not fled,
For "the blood of the martyrs is seed."*

stay or collar, with holes in it to plant the tobacco, Thou art ruin'd, old Fane! yes, the arrow hath sped,
about with six or eight pipes to smoke it in. This
travelling box with the MSS, Medals and other
rarities in it's company descending to a young cler-
gyman, the son of the deceased was soon after
reported to have been transferred to London.”

"As for the picture at Compton, said by Prince, to be drawn for Sir H. Gilbert; if his author Sir W. Pole, is no truer in his assertions of the Queen's having given Sir Humphrey the gold chain, repre

NUGATOR.

DEATH THE SUPPORT OF LIFE. "There is neither waste nor ruin in Nature!" sented about the neck thereof, than he was in her for the smallest particle of matter in the vast unihaving knighted him, and there are no other signa-verse around us, is composed of an infinite number tures besides that chain and the inscription of Vir- of atoms which can never be destroyed, but being ginia on the globe with the verses under it relating united with other atoms constitute a new combithereto; I see not but the picture is to be doubted, nation. One plant decays, scatters its seed, and as meant for his brother Ralegh, who was honored with a golden chain by the queen, and whose title to that inscription on the globe, was beyond any man's in the world."

THE OLD CHURCH.

C. C.

There it stands, the Old Church, on the common, alone,
With the moss and the lichen grown gray;
Its roof is all sunken, its doors are broke down,
And in "window'd raggedness" dark seems its frown
On each mortal, who chanceth this way.

Like a skeleton bare, in the moon's silver ray,
That old building stands out 'mongst the dead;
And the trav'ller in passing, stops short on his way,
Gazing up at that picture of ghastly decay-
Whence every thing living hath fled.

There was joy in Heaven, and rejoicing on earth,
When the stone of that corner was laid;
"The wilderness bloom'd like the rose at its birth,"
It brought the "glad tidings of peace" to each hearth-
For it gather'd the flock which had stray'd.

Let us enter that Ruin and stroll down its aisle,
Let us muse on its glory o'erthrown-

See, the walls are distain'd by the scrawls of the vile,
And hands sacrilegious, have plunder'd the pile-
And its pavement with grass is o'ergrown.

Yet once, it was glorious ;-its aspect was grand-
And as smooth as the velvet, its green,

Which was trod by the great and the gay of this land,
Whose gravestones in ruins around it now stand,
Like their spectres, still haunting the scene.

It was here that in grandeur and wealth they once roll'd,
And that Beauty, enchanted the eye,
When bedeck'd with her jewels and glitt'ring with gold,
She stepp'd from her chariot, all bright to behold,
And her bosom with pride, beating high.

What a change since that time!-how their riches have flown;
Scarce a name on their tombs can be found;
For old Time hath unchisell'd the letters of stone,
And the slabs are all green with the moss overgrown,
And half buried they lie in the ground.

VOL. VII-74

another springs up perhaps more beautiful in the place which it occupied. Even that which we look upon with disgust and horror, is "a step in the progress of life." The tiniest thing that moveswe behold decay moving through its veins, and its corruption, unconscious to itself, engenders new tribes of life. There is not such a thing as beauty, there is not such a thing as life, that does not generate from its corruption, a loathsome life for others." The dust which we trod under foot, has become a beauteous rosebud, filling the air with its fragrance; or a lofty oak, imparting its shade to every thing around. It may have formed a part of the winged eagle, who hovers in regions of space, or the gigantic elephant, who treads the earth with majesty. It may have tended to the formation of the human frame. How strange that the dust of the earth should give to the lip of loveliness its richest glow! to the ear its innumerable and exquisitely minute cavities! and to the eye its floating humors and brilliant colorings! How strange that it should form the enclosure to the "divine itself"-the soul! That it should form the tenement of the earthly fancy, that loves to soar in unknown regions. The memory, that treasurer of the soul!-the reason, that weighs and balances, that guides and determines, and proves! Changes are continually going on among all living bodies. The drop of water that to-day sparkles in the diamond, and to-morrow gives its calm quiet beauty to the pearl, soon becomes the fleecy, heavy cloud, floating in the blue sky, and again descending, gives freshness and health to the humble night flower, or the burning blush to the cheek of the early rose.

"The snow flake of winter revives when the sunbeams are yellow and warm," and forms a gem for the spotless cup of the lily, or is restored in the blossom of the jessamine. Although change and decay are stamped upon all animated nature-although the flower which buds and blossoms in the morning, in the evening lies withered and dead

*The blood of the Martyrs, is said to be the seed of the Church.

BISHOPS-DEFORMITY.

although the frame of youth with its health and
strength and beauty, repose in the cold dark sepul-
chre yet there is one thing earthly, which mocks Mr. Messenger,—
death and decay—the never-dying soul: that which
alone attests man's divine origin—alone renders
him superior to the brute creation. The soul is
immortal, eternal. It undergoes no change, suf-
fers no decomposition; but when decay has fixed
its signet upon the human frame, it rises, like a
brilliant Phoenix, from the funeral pile. Free and
unveiled, it embraces its divine destiny.
torch of death renews its youth.

A HYMN FOR SPRING.

BY G. F. BARSTOW.

Praise the Lord! for Spring is coming,
Filling Earth with lovely things;
O'er the flowers bright insects humming,
Spread their many-colored wings.
From the trees the birds are sending
Their sweet notes of joyous glee,
And their happy songs are blending
With the wild wind's melody.
The creative word is spoken,
Newborn Spring makes glad the sight;
Winter's icy chain is broken,

And the waters leap in light.

On the banks sweet flowers are springing,
All in loveliness arrayed,
In the wind the branches swinging,
Cast a cool, refreshing shade.
Nature's voice our souls is cheering,
As she speaks in accents mild,
Worldly cares no longer fearing,
Let us listen as a child.
Let our hopes as birds untiring
Point to heaven their joyful way,
To the highest bliss aspiring,
Guided by a heavenly ray.

As the buds that open round us,

Daily grow more fresh and fair,
Till the full-blown flowers surround us
With a sweetly perfumed air;
Let our souls and hearts unfolding
Spread around us joy and love,
Each, a holy censer, holding
Incense lighted from above.

Praise the Lord! for Spring's sweet pleasures,
For the rapture it bestows,

For the flowers' uncounted treasures,
For the stream that softly flows,
For the birds whose merry singing
Makes the soul forget its woe,
For the joys around us bringing
Hope to hearts oppressed and low.
Joy is in scenes without us,

And the world within is gay;
Flowers are blossoming about us,
Hopes are budding into day,
Though affliction, care and sorrow
Bind us with an icy chain,
Hope points out a joyful morrow,
Spring puts forth her flowers again.

I was lately looking over the pages of the Spectator; and in several numbers I find the talented and judicious author, lashes with a delicate vein of irony, some of the excesses of the female sex in his day, on the subject of dress. We are ever prone to run into extremes, and I suppose all ages have borne witness to our caprice in this particuThe lar. I consider Mr. Addison was a man of true

gallantry; that is, he was a friend, as well as admirer of the weaker part of creation; when he touches their foibles, it is with a gentle hand, and it is very evident that he desires their improvement, and not to ridicule and lower their posi tion in society, as some other authors do; (who to show their wit, betray qualities much less admirable;) but he at all times endeavors to elevate them in society, by making them more worthy the esteem and admiration of all. Such a friend, Mr. Messenger, do we Virginia ladies take you to be; you have in various ways shown your respect for our sex, and I could not help thinking as I read the above mentioned pages, that the present generation stood much in need of a Spectator,-why should not we look up to such a censor, or rather mentor in our Southern Messenger? he is equally a friend, and we have no doubt as warmly desires the improvement of his countrywomen as any Englishman could his. Perhaps you are thinking-" well, to what point will all this tend?" Well, I will let you know, and if you do not think this beneath your notice, you can publish it with a hint or two in your paper.

You must know I am a plain country lady, living in a retired nook of Old Virginia, my time being entirely engrossed in my domestic concerns, and in cultivating the dawning intellects of my children. I am fond of reading, and I generally devote some portion of the day to some good auther, the better to qualify me to instruct my children, whom I cannot entrust to other hands while young, believing that, as no one feels the warm interest of a mother, so will none take the same pains to convey to their tender minds, the explanations; an swer their interrogatories; and, more than all, impress moral instruction, and the deep sense of reetitude, virtue and religion upon their suscepuke hearts, as a mother. This duty, (for it is both my duty and pleasure,) and attending to my gar den, superintending my servants, with the number less trifles that enter into our department, renders the life of a Virginia lady no idle one. I conse quently devote very little time to visiting—bat, by way of recreation, I accompanied my husband to your city some weeks ago, for a few days; and was gratified with my visit in many respects. The beautiful scenery, and romantic situation of Richmond, must ever render it an object of interest to