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lated the problem of our future positions. He was with us, when we, as a class, proudly bore away our parchment rolls testifying, in stately Latin, that we were severally “ Artium liberalium Baccalaureus."

Subsequently, in his short but marked career, he showed that he could meet life in its real forms. He was working well :—what is a man worth that will not work?-he was winning friends ;-he had found a heart that made his own happy in domestic bliss ;-he had taken from the hands of wedded love that precious pledge which awakened a new affection in his paternal heart. He had just begun to livemto live like a man and a christian that he was--and-the bolt bas struck. We stand dumb with amazement. The blow has stunned us. When that dreadful shock was over, then memory was busy with the scenes of the past, and I wept. Why should I not? To weep at such a time is not anmanly. Then tears are decorous, satisfying, soothing.

On looking over my epistolary correspondence with college friends and classmates, I find a letter over his signature, from which I venture to make the following extract:

i 1 “George, you and I have had many pleasant hours together, back along the path the years have trod; and the memory of them comes floating ap this evening sweeter than scented breezes from 'Araby the Blest.' Many a changing scene we'll pass through, upon the bounding billows of life, before we are anchored safely upon the other side of the ocean-stream

- but the same Saviour sits at the helm aboard each oar barks, directing it. And as we go to that western window of life, and look out upon eternity, and scan the broad future, it is lighted up by a brighter effulgence than ever draped the evening's sky, for the distant hills of paradise are gilded with the light of immortality.

* I intend to remain here three or four years, then go to A- and study two years, then off to the "gut land” of Germany, to finish up-and to travel over the continent to complete my preparatory course for life's duties. From boyhood I have loved to dream of those lands, thickly girt with classic measures, and linger along the streams that bathe the feet of Athens and of Rome-dream beneath the shadows of the Parthenon, and drink from the bubbling fountain on 'woody Helicon.' In later years I have wept at reading the noble German tongue, and longed to sit at the feet of her Gamaliels. I would do some worthy thing for which to be remembered. There is a kind of longing, grasping after something ahead, that leads me on, and over the hillocks toward the sunset of life. Perhaps you may hear from me—and I say it with no egotism, somewhere down the stream. George, I expect the same of you.

“One of the most impressive of my late experiences, was Webster's funeral at Marshfield. I went down to the burying. The country around is unattractive, exceedingly. Webster's place is all. There is something sublime, it seems to me, in his going away down there amorg the bones

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of the Pilgrims, on the lone sea-shore; and while he wanders around there with his fisher's rod, or hunter's pouch, in solitary greatness, two worlds are regarding him with the deepest interest. The mound where he is entombed is about a quarter of a mile from the mansion, and looks out upon the ocean, whose hardy sons he loved so well—and its murmur comes and whispers in the ears of the Great Man, as he lies slumbering there, the eternity of his fame. Oh, how I admired him. I have stood and gazed on that noble form, with tears rolling down my cheeks, while he spoke ela quent words, and turned those cavernous eyes around on listening thousands. “Never shall we see his like again.' But

the clock bas struck eleven, and I will bid you good night. * Yours ever, most truly,

So little know we what is in the dim,
Uncertain future. Hopes are beacons false,
That lure us on, but like the meteor's flash,:
Gleam brightly for a moment and are gone,
The winding mazes of life's labyrinth
Are traversed darksomely: a hidden clew
Conducts us, and we know not of the end,
But he hath found it.

New Hampshire Journal of Edu.

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'Twas morn!
And gentle zephyr came with sweet perfume
It had just gathered from dew-laden flowers,
And stole between white curtains, to the side
Of one it oft had wooed from slumbers chains,
To mark the beauties of a dawn like this.
It wandered o'er the cheek-'twas marble cold-
It breathed upon the lips—they murmured not-
It kissed the eyelids—they did not unclose
And then, affrighted, it flew back again,
To tell its story to the wondering flowers.
The spirit was not there; but in a home
Of light, and love, and purest-holiest bliss,
Was drinking its first draught of heavenly joy.

Why is it that our hearts throb so with woe,
When the last sigh is breathed by lips we love ?

Why, when the worn and troubled spirit finds
Rest from its weariness, at last, in heaven,
Are our souls dressed in such dark hues of gloom ?
Is it that we would call them back to earth
To tread its darksome paths again? To mourn
O'er hopes decayed, and weep o'er hearts grown cold?
Not so! But from our lives a joy has filed-
A ray of sunlight has forever passed.
We can but mourn and weep, e'en while we kenovo
That they, our loved ones, rest in peace in heaven.
'Tis ever thus when friends depart, but oh!
How deeper, darker is that grief, when she
Who nursed our infancy, and blessed our youth,
Goes back to God, and leaves us desolate.

A mother's form lay still, and pale, and cold-
A mother's spirit swelled the ranks of heaven.
But oh, how dark seemed earth to her who bent
Above the casket with such look of woe!
How deep seemed that despair ! Days passed away-
The smile returned not, which was wont to wreathe
Those lips with sweetness ever—for death touched
The mother's heart, and they two were so linked,
The chill had reached the fount of joy within
The child's, and checked its flow forever.

Oh! is it not a fearful thing
To see a young, fond heart, which ne'er before
Had felt one touch of grief, suddenly bowed
With a great weight of sorrow! To mark the
Eye grow dim with weeping, and list in vain
For the sweet carol of the voice, which once

Rang on the ear in accents full of joy.
SALEM, OHIO, February, 1858.

SPORTS OF CHILDHOOD.-A celebrated female writer thus pleads the canse of little girls :

“I plead that she be not punished as a romp, if she keenly enjoys those active sports which city gentility proscribes. I plead that the ambition to make her accomplished should not chain her to the piano, till the spinal column, which should consolidate the frame, starts aside like a broken reed, nor bow her over her books, till the vital energy which ought to per vade the whole frame, mounts into the brain and kindles the dead fever.”




GLANCING over the wide domain of literature, we find many productions which have held an elevated rank among the cultivated of every age. Greece had her Iliad, Rome her Æneid; and though the blind Homer wandered in his life friendless and homeless, after ages have delighted to pay the tribute of praise due to his sublime genius.

The middle ages were productive of epics, which, in many respects, compare favorably with those of an earlier date. The German “NibelungenLied,” and the Icelandic “Edda,” though less generally read than the Homeric

poems, still rank high as specimens of early Heroic literature. From the fact that it has been so difficult to determine precisely the time and place in which the events so vividly described in the Grecian epics transpired, some have regarded them as allegorical narrations, intended to symbolize the progress of principles and ideas, which bave impressed themselves on the character and destiny of nations. The meaning of the German epic is more accurately defined, as the character and exploits of its hero are identified as those of a distinguished historical personage.

The “Edda" teaches that the earth and world arose from the carcass of a benumbed giant. It contains, also, the narration of “bold heroes and the friendly spirits of light," overcoming in many combats, "the might of the old powers of darkness.” It is evidently an embodiment of the religious ideas of the people of the North, together with the traditionary accounts of events which had transpired in their history.

But while the study of these treasures of ancient literature has proved a source of unbounded interest to the scholar-from the light which they shed upon ancient life and thought, and the influence they have exerted upon mind-there is yet another collection of writings which is no less widely perused, and is also exerting a powerful influence in moulding the character of mind and thought. Of great antiquity, combining 'what Schlegel terms the three essentials of poetry-invention, expression, and inspiration, embodying deep and significant meaning, the classics of the nursery will amply repay the labor of study and investigation.

To the casual observer, it is true, they suggest no other idea than that of & senseless jargon of rhyme without reason, composed merely for the amusement of the young; but to those who thoughtfully examine them, they afford more than ordinary interest. For the influence which these poems have exerted upon the taste of mankind, they are worthy of our

highest regard. They were perchance, the first ballads which fell apon the ear of a Chaucer or a Spenser. They may have given bias and direc? tion to the poetical minds of Shakspeare and Milton.

As historical records they are interesting. From the tale of Robin Hood many a lad has caught an inspiration that has aided him in sharpening his arrow and bending his bow in the cause of the oppressed and exiled. But it is of the prophetical character of these writings that we wish more particularly to speak. To the philosophic mind the study of prophecy is ever one of deep interest. Especially is this the case when passing events afford the means of verifying its truth.

Undoubtedly she whose name many of these writings bear, was, like the Delphian oracle of old, endowed with the power of prophetic vision far beyond any who now, in spiritual trance, aspire to fortell the mysteries of the future. That these remarkable productions have not attracted the attention of the learned, is perhaps on account of the but recent fulfillment of any of the predictions recorded therein.

Happy are we who live in times like the present, glowing in the light shed upon them from the past. Hear the lamentations of “Mother Goose'' over the financial crisis that was then far in the future:

"Hark! hark! the dogs do bark,

The beggars are coming to town,
Some in rags and some in jags,
And some in velvet gowns."

How vividly has she pictured the distress of all, both of the poor man and of him who "walks in silk attire."

Again she tells us of the ærial flight of an ancient dame, who neglecting the needs of earth, soared aloft, with broom in hand, prepared to “sweep the cob-webs from the sky."

How like in spirit was her far-reaching ambition to that of some modern reformers, who, overlooking the duties of their own sphere, and disregarding the injunction of St. Paul—“suffer not a woman to teach nor to usurp authority”-essay to hold the reins of government:

“To speak in public on the stage."

Like her, also, are the Mrs. Jellybys of our day, who, leaving the numberless claims of home and friends, expend their overflowing benevolence upon the benighted inhabitants far away in the regions round about “Borrioboola Gha."

Much like the career of “Simple Simon," whose search for plums on a thorn-bush proved so unavailing, was that of the great “Fillibuster" who, having left the scene of his battles and defeats in a most inglori. ous manner, is now a living exemplification of the truth that,

" He who fights and runs away,

May live to fight another day."

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