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5. His grace was sound asleep; and the porter, settled for the night, in his arm-chair, had already commenced a +sonorous nap, when the vigorous arm of the Cornish voter roused him from his slumbers. To his first question, “Is the Duke at home ?” the porter replied, “Yes, and in bed; but has left particular orders, that come when you will, you are to go up to him directly. “ Bless him, for a worthy and honest gentleman,” cried our applicant for the vacant post, smiling and nodding with approbation, at the prime minister's kindness, "how punctual his grace is; I knew he would not deceive me; let me hear no more of lords' and dukes' not keeping their word; I verily believe they are as honest, and mean as well as any other folks.” Having ascended the stairs as he was speaking, he was ushered into the Duke's bed-chamber.

6. “Is he dead ?” exclaimed his grace, rubbing his eyes, and scarcely awakened from dreaming of the King of Spain, "Is he dead?" "Yes, my lord,” replied the eager expectant, delighted

” to find the election promise, with all its circumstances, so fresh in the nobleman's memory. "When did he die ?” “The day before yesterday, exactly at half past one o'clock, after being confined three weeks to his bed, and taking a power of doctor's stuff'; and I hope your grace will be as good as your word, and let my son-inlaw succeed him."

7. The Duke, by this time perfectly awake, was staggered at the impossibility of receiving intelligence from Madrid in so short a space of time; and perplexed at the absurdity of a king's messenger applying for his son-in-law to succeed the King of Spain : “Is the man drunk, or mad? Where are your dispatches !” exclaimed his grace, hastily drawing back his curtain ; where, instead of a royal courier, his eager eye recognized at the bed-side, the well known countenance of his friend from Cornwall, making low bows, with hat in hand, and “hoping my lord would not forget the gracious promise he was so good as to make, in favor of his son-inlaw, at the last election."

8. Vexed at so untimely a disturbance, and disappointed of news from Spain, the Duke frowned for a moment; but + chagrin soon gave way to mirth, at so singular and ridiculous a combination of circumstances, and yielding to the impulse, he sunk upon the bed in a violent fit of laughter, which was communicated in a moment to the attendants.

9. The relater of this little narrative, concludes, with observing, “ Although the Duke of Newcastle could not place the relative of his old acquaintance on the throne of His Catholic Majesty, he advanced him to a post not less honorable,-- he made him an texciseman.”


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1. In my daily walks into the country, I was accustomed to pass a certain cottage. 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 likely to fix it in the mind of the poet or novel-writer, and which might induce him to people it with creatures 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 I ever saw, were a young woman, and another female, in the wane of life, no doubt the mother.

2. The damsel was a comely, fresh, mild-looking cottage girl, always seated in one spot, near the window, intent on 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 when in sleep. The cottage stood so near the road, that the fire at the further end of the room,


you, without your being rudely inquisitive, the whole interior in a single moment of passing. A clean hearth and a cheerful fire, shining upon homely, but neat and orderly furniture, spoke of comfort; but whether the old dame enjoyed, or merely diffused that comfort, was a problem.

3. 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 reclined upon

I was sure that it was sickness which had compelled her to that action 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 had wondered at it, and struggled against it, and borne up, hoping it would pass by; till, loth as she was to yield, it had forced submission.

4. The next day, when I passed, the room appeared as usual; the fire burning pleasantly, the girl at her needle, but her mother was not to be seen; and, glancing my eye upward, I perceived the blind close drawn, in the window above. It is so, said I to myself, disease is in progress. Perhaps it occasions no gloomy fear of consequences, no extreme concern: and yet, who knows how it may end ? It is thus, that begin those changes that draw out the

her arms.

central bolt that holds families together; which steal away our fire-side faces, and lay waste our affections. 5. I passed by, day after day. The scene was the same;

the fire burning, the hearth beaming clear 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 more quiet habit. It was easy to interpret this change. Disease had + assumed an alarming +aspect; the daughter was occupied in +intense watching and caring for the suffering mother, and the good woman's sister had been summoned to her side, perhaps from a distant spot, and, perhaps, from her family cares, which no less important an event could have induced her to telude.

6. Thus appearances continued some days. There was 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 commence with so little observation, but leave behind them such lasting effects.




1. The departed ! the departed !

They visit us in dreams,
And they glide above our memories

Like shadows over streams;
But where the cheerful lights of home

In constant luster burn,
The departed, the departed,

Can never more return !
2. The good, the brave, the beautiful,

How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music

Of the ever-tossing deep!
Or where the surging night-winds

Pale winter's robes have spread
Above the narrow palaces,

In the cities of the dead !
3. I look around, and feel the awe

Of one who walks alone,
Among the wrecks of former days,

In mournful ruin strown;

I start to hear the stirring sounds

Among the cypress trees,
For the voice of the departed

Is borne upon the breeze.
4. That solemn voice! it mingles with

Each free and careless strain ;
I scarce can think earth's * minstrelsy

Will cheer my heart again,
The melody of summer waves,

The thrilling notes of birds,
Can never be so dear to me,

As their remembered words.
6. I sometimes dream, their pleasant smiles

Still on me sweetly fall,
Their tones of love I faintly hear

My name in sadness call."
I know that they are happy,

With their angel-plumage on,
But my heart is very desolate,
To think that they are gone.




THANATOPSIS. (Thanatopsie is composed of two Greek words, thanatos meaning death, and opsis, a view. The word, therefore, signifies a view of death or “Reflections on Death."]

1. To him, who, in the love of nature, holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language ; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his dark musings, with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away

Their sharpness, ere he is aware.

When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour, come like a blight
Over thy spirit and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breainless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make 'inee to shudder and grow sick at heart;
Go forth into the open sky, and list
To nature's teaching, while from all around,
Comes a still voice-


“Yet a few days, and thee, The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet, in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To forever with the elements, To be a brother to th' insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude tswain

Turns with his share and treads upon. 4.

The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.
Yet not to thy eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor could'st thou wish
Couch more + magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world, with kings,
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and +hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulcher. 5.

The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales, Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn +decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death,

Through the still +lapse of ages. 6.

All that tread
The globe, are but a handful, to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the tcontinuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save its own dashings-yet- the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep: the dead reign there alone. 7. So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall

Unnoticed by the living; and no friend
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone; the solemn + brood of caro
Plod on: and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite + phantom ; yet all these shall leave

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