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years old. It is a very old pieture, and is looked upon with a degree of reverenee and attaehment by tho inhahitants whieh it is diffieult for us to understand. It is said that Napoleon was indueed to leave it in its plaee, for fear of exasperating the Genoese too highly by removing it to Paris, as ho eontemplated.

The Bank of St. George, the oldest in Europe, (though that honor is also elaimed by Veniee,) is still here in a flourishing eondition.

The walks and drives in the neighborhood of Genoa are surpassingly beautiful. Close to, and overlooking the eity, are the Pesekiere and Zerhino gardens, where the inhahitants are allowed to walk. At a distaneo of five or six miles, are the Pellavieini and Lomelini Villas, whieh merit a visit as mueh as anything in Genoa. In the former, art has almost superseded nature, whieh has left only the fine viows whieh everywhere break out among the walks. Grottos, eaves, eastles, summer-houses, Chineso pagodas, obelisks, bridges, and lakes; all unite to make a most lovely spot, to whieh the memory reverts with very great pleasure.

Tho elimate of Genoa is very good, and the only drawhaek in winter is tho high wind whieh is gene

rally prevailing. It is, however, a very healthy plaee, and one ean enjoy mueh solid eomfort. Tho hotels are of tho best deseription, the restaurants! are good; provisions are plenty and eheap; tho soeiety is better than in any other eity of Italy, and foreigners, with proper eredentials, find no diffieulty in obtaining an entranee into it.

Above all, Sardinia is free! the press ia as free as eould be wished. Tho soldiery are intended for the enemy, not for tho eitizen; life, property, eonseienee, all are safe. Here only, in Italy, the priests have been elevated to the level of their fellow-eitizens. The peeuliar privileges under whieh they have so long hattened have been removed, and they take their plaees with, instead of above their floeks.

Sardinia is now the eynosure of all true lovers of freedom for Italy. She is looked upon with little love by Austria, Naples, and the other despotisms of Europe; and the time is not far distant when she may have to defend her freedom with the sword. It is to be hoped that, when that day arrives, and the standard of freedom is ereeted in its last Italian home, the governments of Franee and Englaud will he found ranging themselves by the side of Savoy.

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i LAST WORDS,

BT HELEN HAMILTON

1 We treasure fondly in our hearts

A parent's eheering praise,
The orator's warm eloquenee,

The poet's fervent lays;
The vows of love are woven elose
With many a heart's warm ehords;
i Yet, oh 1 we treasure these far less

Than some loved lip,f last words.

We stand beside the bed of death,

And eloser bend tho ear,
The last faint tones of tenderness

From those pale lips to hear;
And, oh! the wooing voiee of love,

The minstrel's high aeeords,
Sink loss in our hearts' inmost depths

Than those faint-breathed last words.

Last words! last words! The broken phrase

Formed by the parting breath.
Ere Life's dim twilight fades awny

Into the night of Death,
The last notes drawn from out a narp,

Before its breaking ehords,
Yield 'neath the sweep of Death's eold hand;

There treasure we—last words.

Last words! last words! The sobbed adieu

Of those who part forever,
The waters' moan ere Death's dark sea

Ingulfs Life's sparkling river;
A loved name murmured brokenly,
j A faintly-breathed farowell—

] - These are thy jswels, Memory!

Guard thou the easket well.

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Ah me! Am I really a rieh man, or am I not? That is the question. I am sure I don't feel rieh; and yet, here I am written down among the "wealthy eitizens" as being worth seventy thousand dollars! How the estimate was made, or who furnished the data, is all a mystery to me. I am sure I wasn't aware of the faet before. "Seventy thousand dollars\" That sounds eomfortable, doesn't it? Seventy thousand dollars! But where is it? Ah! There's the rub! How true it is that people always know more about you than you do yourself.

Before this eonfounded book eame out, (" The Wealthy Citizen* of Philadelphia,") I was jogging itm very quietly. Nobody seemed to be aware of the faet that I was a rieh man, and I had no suspieion of the thing myself. But, strango to tell, I awoke one morning and found myself worth seventy thousand dollars! I shall never forget that day. Men who had passed me in the street with a quiet, familiar nod, now bowed with a low saluam, or lifted their hats deferentially, as I eneountered them on the part.

"What's the meaning of all this?" thought I. "I havn't stood up to be shot at, nor sinned against innoeenee and virtue. I havn't been to Paris. I don't wear moustaehes. What has givon me this importanee?"

And, musing thns, I pursued my way in quest of money to help me out with some pretty heavy payments. After sueeeeding, though with some diffieulty, in obtaining what I wanted, I returned to my store about twelve o'eloek. I found a mereantile aequaintanee awaiting me, who, without many preliminaries, thus stated his business:—

"I want," said ho, with great eoolness, "to got a loan of six or seven thousand dollars; and I don't know of any one to whom I ean apply with more freedom and hope of sueeess than yourself. I think I ean satisfy yon, fully, in regard to seeurity."

"My dear sir," replied I, " if you only wanted six or seven hundred dollars instead of six or seven thousand, I eould not aeeommodate you. I have inst eome in from a borrowing expedition myself."

I was struek with the sudden ehange in the man's eountenanee. He was not only disappointed, but offended. He did not believe my statement . In his eyes, I had meanly resorted to a subterfuge, or, rather, told a lie, beeause I did not wish to let him have my money. Bowing with eold formality, he turned away and left my plaee of business. His manner to me has been reserved ever sinee.

On the afternoon of that day, I was sitting in the

, haek part of my store musing on some matter of business, when I saw a eouple of ladies enter. They spoke to one of my elerks, and he direeted them haek to where I was taking things eomfortably in an old arm-ehair.

J "Mr. Q > I believe?" said the elder of the two

i ladies, with a bland smile.

I I had already arisen, and to this question, or rai ther affirmation, I bowed assent.

"Mr. G ," resumed the lady, produeing a

\ small book as she spoke, "wo are a eommittee, \ appointed to make eolleetions in this distriet for the | purpose of getting up a fair in aid of the funds of j the Esquimaux Missionary Soeiety. It is the design ! of the Indies who have taken this matter in hand to J have a very large eolleetion of artieles, as the funds S of the soeiety are entirely exhausted. To the genj tlemen of our distriet, and espeeially to those who J have been liberally blessed with thin world's goods" I —this was partieularly emphasized—" we look for j important aid. Upon you, sir, wo have ealled first, J in order that you may head the subseription, and

thus sot an example of liberality to others." 'And the lady handed me the book in the most "of i eourse" manner in the world, and with the evident \ expeetation that I would put down at least fifty dolj lars.

< Of eourse I was eornered, and must do something, i I tried to be bland and polite; but am inelined to

think that I failed in the effort- As for fairs, I never j did approve of them. But that was nothing. The j enemy had boarded me so suddenly and so eomj pletely, that nothing was left for me but to surrender { at diseretion, and I did so with as good a graee as ; possible. Opening my desk, I took out a five dollar

hill and presented it to the elder of the two ladies, 'thinking that I was doing very well indeed. She ; took the money, but was evidently disappointed; , and did not even ask me to head the list with my

name.

"How money does harden the heart!" I overi heard one of my fair visitors say to the other, in : a low voiee, but plainly intended for my edifij eation, as they walked off with their five dollar hill.

i "Confound .your impudenee!" I said to myself,

< thus taking my revenge out of them. "Do you ; think I 'vo got nothing else to do with my money r but seatter it to the four winds?"

j And I stuek my thumbs firmly in the armholes \ of my waisteoat, and took a dozen turns up and down 'my store, in order to eool off.

"Confound your impudenee!" I then repeated, \ and quietly sat down again in the old arm-ehair. J

On the next day, I had any number of ealls from? money hunters. Business men, who had never i thought of asking me for loans, finding that I was i worth seventy thousand dollars, erowded in upon \ me for temporary favors, and, when disappointed i in their expeetations, eouldn't seem to understand it. i When I spoke of being "hard up" myself, they looked as if they didn't elearly eomprehend what I meant.

A fow days after the story of my wealth had gone abroad, I was sitting, one evening, with my family, when I was informed that a lady was in the parlor, and wished to see me.

"A lady!" said I.

"Yes, sir," replied the servant.

"Is she alone ?*'

"Yes, sir.": "What does she want?" "She did not say, sir."

"Very well. Tell her I '11 be down in a fow moments."

When I entered the parlor, I found a woman, drama in mourning, with her veil elosely drawn.

"Mr. G ?" she said, in a low, sad voiee.

I bowed, and took a plaee upon the sofa where she was sitting, and from whieh she had not risen upon my entranee.

u Pardon the great liberty I have taken," she began, after a pause of emharrassment, and in an unsteady voiee. u But, I believe I have not mistaken •your eharaeter for sympathy and benevolenee, nor erred in believing that your hand is ever ready to respond to the generous impulses of your heart."

I bowed again, and my visitor went on.

"My objeet in ealling upon you I will briefly state. A year ago my husband died. Up to that time I had never known the want of anything that money eould buy. He was a merehant of this eity, and supposed to be in good oi ream stanees. But ho left an insolvent estate; and now, with five littlo J ones to eare for, edneate, and support, I have parted j with nearly my last dollar, and have not a single; friend to whom I ean look for aid." J

There was a deep earnestness and moving pathos \ in the tones of tho woman's voiee, that went to my i heart . She paused for a fow moments, overeome \ with her feelings, and then resumed :—

"One in an extremity like mine, sir, will do many \ things from whieh, under other eireumstanees, she f would shrink. This is my only exeuse for troubling ) you at the present time. But I eannot see my little > family in want without an effort to sustain them; > and, with a littlo aid, I see my way elear to do so. 5 I was well edueated, and feel not only eompetent, > but willing to undertake a sehool. There is one, \ the teaeher of whieh being in had health, wishes to i give it up, and if I ean get the means to buy out her j establishment, will seeure an amplo and permanent .

ineome for my family. To aid me, sir, in doing this, I now make an appeal to you. I know you are able, and I believe you are willing to put forth your hand and save my ehildren from want, and, it may be, separation."

The woman still remained elosely veiled; I eouldn't, therefore, see her faee. But I eould pereeive that she was waiting with trembling suspense for my answer. Heaven knows my heart responded freely to her appeal

"How mueh will it take to purehase this establishment?" I inquired.

"Only a thousand dollars," she replied.

I was talent. A thousand dollars!

"I do not wish it, sir, as a gift," she said; "only as a loon. In a year or two, I will be able to repay it."

"My dear madam," was my reply, "had I the abllity, most gladly would I meet your wishes. But, I assure you, I have not. A thousand dollars taken from my business would destroy it."

A deep sigh, that was almost a groan, eame up. from the breast of the stranger, and her head drooped low upon her bosom. She seemed to have fully expeeted the relief for whieh she applied; and to be strieken to the earth by my words! We were both unhappy.

"May I presume to ask your name, madam?" said I, after a pause.

"It would do no good to mention it," she replied, mournfully. "It has eost me a painful effort to tx — to you; and now that my hope has proved, alas! in vain, I must beg the privilege of still remaining a stranger."

She arose, as she said this. Her figure was tall and dignified. Dropping me a slight eourtesy, she was turning to go away, when I said—

"But, madam, even if I have not the ahility to grant your request, I may still have it in my power to aid you in this matter. I am ready to do all I ean; and, without doubt, among the friends of your hushand will be found numbers to step forward and join in affording you the assistanee so mueh desired, when they are made aware of your present extremity."

The lady made an impatient gesture, as if my words were felt as a moekery or an insult, and, turning from me, again walked from the room with a firm step. Before I eould reeover myself, she had passed into the street, and I was left standing alone. To this day I have remained in ignoranee of her identity. Cheerfully would I have aided her to the extent of my ahility to do so. Her story touehed my feelings and awakened my liveliest sympathies, and if, on learning her name and making proper inquiries inte her eireumstanees, I had found all to bo as she had stated, I would have felt it a duty to interest myself in her behalf, and have eontributed in aid of the desired end to the extent of my ahility. But she eame to mo under the false idea that I had but to put my hand in my poeket, or write a eheek upon the hank, and lo! a thousand dollars were fortheoming. And beeause I did not do this, she believed me unfeeling, selfish, and turned from me mortified, disappointed, and despairing.

THE SORROWS OF A "WEALTHY CITIZEN" 8? POETUY.

I felt sad for weeks after this painful interviow. On the very next morning I reeeived a lotter from an artist, in whieh he spoke of the extremity of his eireumstanees, and begged me to purehase a eouple of pietures. I ealled at his rooms, for I eould not resist his appeal. The pietures did not strike me as possessing mueh arristio value.

"What do you ask for them?" I inquired.

"I refused a hundred dollars for the pair. Bat I am eompelled to port with them now, and you shall have them for eighty."

I had many other uses for eighty dollars, and, therefore, shook my head. But, as he looked disappointed, I offered to take one of the pietures at forty dollars. To this he agreed. I paid the money, and the pieture was sent home. Some days afterwards, I was showing it to a friend.

"What did you pay for it V he asked.

"Forty dollars," I replied.

The friend smiled strangely.

*"What's the matter?" said I.

"He offered it to me for twenty-five."

"That pieture V

"Yes."

"He asked me eighty for this and another, and said he had refused a hundred for the pair."

"Though he lied. He thought, at you were veil off, that he must ask you a good stiff priee, or you wouldn't buy."

"The seoundrel!"

"He got ahead of you, eertainly."

"But it's the last time," said I, angrily.

And so things went on. Seareely a day passed in whieh my fame as a wealthy eitizen did not subjeet me to some kind of experiment from people in want of money. If I employed a porter for any serviee and asked what was to pay, after the work was done, ten ehanees to one that ho didn't toueh his hat and reply—

"Anything that you please, sir," in the hope that I, being a rieh man, would be ashamed to offer him less than about four times his regular priee. Poor people in abundanee ealled upon mo for aid; and all sorts of applieation to give or lend money met me at every turn. And when I, in self-defenee, begged off as politely as possible, hints gentle or broad, aeeording to the eharaeters or feelings of those who eame, touehing the hardening and perverting influenee of wealth were thrown out for my espeeial edifieation.

Vol. Xlv.—8

j And still the annoyanee eontinues. Nobody but

> myself doubts the faet that I am worth from seventy ; to a hundred thousand dollars, and I am, therefore, \ eonsidered allowable game for all who are too idle

or prodigal to sueeeed in the world; or as Nature's \ almoner to all who are suffering from misfortunes. Soon after the publieation to whieh I have alluded wns foisted upon our eommunity as a veritable doeument, I found myself a seeular dignitary in the ehureh militant. Previously I had been only a powholder, and an unamhitious attendant upon the Sabhath ministrations of the Rev. Mr. . But a

now field suddenly opened before mo. I was a man of weight and influenee, and must be used for what I was worth. It is no joke, I ean assure the reader, when I tell them that the way my poeket suffered was truly alarming. I don't know, but I have seriously thought, sometimes, that if I hadn't kieked loose from my dignity, I would have been gazetted as a hankrupt long before this time.

Soon after sending in my resignation as vestryman or deaeon, I will not say whieh, I met the Rev. Mr.

, and the way he talked U> me about the earth

being the "Lord's and the fulness thereof;" about our having "the poor always with us;" about the duties of eharity, and the laying up of treasure in heaven, mado me ashamed to go to ehureh for a month to eome. I really began to fear that I was a doomed man, and that the reputation of being a "wealthy eitizen" was going to sink me into everlasting perdition. But I am getting over that feeling now. My eash book, ledger, and hill book set me right again; and I ean button up my eoat and draw my purse-strings, when guided by the dietates of my own judgment, without afearof tho threatened \ final eonsequonees before my eyes. Still, I am the

> Subjeet of perpetual annoyanee from all sorts of

> people, who will persist in believing that I am made

> of money; and many of these approaeh me in sueh S a way as to put it almost entirely out of my powor i to say "no." They eome with appeals for small i amounts, as loans, donations to partieular eharities, s or as the priee of artieles that I do not want, but I whieh I eannot well refuse to take. I am sure that, ! sinee I have obtained my present unenviablo repuj tntion, it hasn't eost me a eent less than two thouI sand, in money given away, loaned never to be returned, and in the purehase of things that I never would have thought of buying.

And, with all this, I have made more enemies than I ever before had in my life, and estranged half of my friends and aequaintanees.

Seriously, I have it in eontemplation to "burst up" one of these days, in order to satisfy the world that I am not a rieh man. I see no other effeetual remedy for my present grievanees.

I'VE BEEN FORTH INTO THE WORLD, MOTHER.

BY MARIE J. CLARE.

The fint thing that youth loses is its faith in human truth. When the young heart diseovers that friends may be false or interested; that man in general is selfish, not to say villanous, Its first impulse is to leave the world;— it yearns to pass immediately by the gate of Death to a better—even if it be all unprepared; for this other—the angelie .

I 'vr been forth lnto the world, mother—into the world alone,

And in all hopelessness of good eome I haek to thee, my own;

To thee, the only one whose voiee I ean in trust believe— Who will not, with agendo smile and winning tone, deeeive. •

I hate this world, I hate false friends, I hate all else but

thee;

The very sight of things onee loved is hateful unto me:
I laugh in reekless moekery at dreams of faneied bliss—
Ay I laugh ln seorn and bltterness—the world hath taught
me this.

Proud eastles, built with hope, lie hurled in ruins sadly low;

The prism through whieh I viowed the world was broken long ago:

Now hanished the dreams that gave delight, earth's earelines mark my brow;

Eaeh bright tint faded from my sight, and life's one eolor now.

Tis strange and very sad, thou 'It say, that one who hath searee seen

The joyous blrth of leaf and flower ln the summertime eighteen,

Should speak so solemnly of life, of its mournful gift of tears,

And the tones that Sorrow whispers thus unto unwilling ears.

But oh I I've trusted in sueh faith, finding that trust in vain,

That with the same free openness I ne'er ean hope again; My loftiest thoughts are seorned the most, deemed but the false imtruo—

Cold eyes and oolder hearts here judge of what they never know.

The life-flame burns so fast, mother, I faney 'tis death-fed, And sueh a hot, hot hand, mother, is laid upon my head! Sweet voiees murmur in my ear from out an angel throng; A blessed hymn—anon, anon eomes a fieree, fiendish song.

I know that thou art weeping, mother 1 I feel upon my eheek

ltaeh hurried tear that silently tells woe thou eanst not speak:

But ah! my fount of tears is dry—I never more may weep; £ ean but lay me down and die—sing me to my death-sleep.

THE WAIL OE THE TYROL.

BT H. T. C0NRAD.

u When I visited the Tyrol, I asked a peasant why the people were all in mourning. 'Lonk at our towns,' replied be; *you see they are all in ashes—and ean you ask why we are in mourning:'"

I Weep not for my father, although his silver hair
Far off on the silent hattle-field streams on tho putrid air;
I mourn not for my briyht-eyed boy, my beautiful and
bravo,

Nor tho gentle one whoso eold arms elasp her treasure in the grave.

I weep not for the trusty friends whieh war has swept away, Though my gallant brothers all are doad—and my sisters,

where aro they f And my home, my own loved eottage, the happiest in the

vale,

Its ashes sweep—yet I heed it not—on every passing gala.

I weep—but, stranger, selfish tears no Tyrol eheek ean I live:

Our hills were freedom's sunlit thrones—they now are freedom's grave;

My eountry's heart is gasping, her voiee is a voiee of wail; Despair shrieks on eaeh mountain-top, and death shrouds every vale.

But we'll weep no more! Why should we weep? Is the

spirit of freedom dead? We '11 ehange the hue of sorrow soon from the dark to the

bloody red;

And the shout of the free again shall ring from mountaintop to shore,

And the peasant shall joy on his ehsinless hill, and the Tyrol wail no more.

TO LIZZIE.

BT M. IEBB.

Come, sit thee down beside me now,

My sister and my love,
And let me look into thine eyes,

Blue as the sky above:
A very heaven they are to me,

So gentle and so still;
Bright with pure thoughts, borne from thy soul.

Like blossoms on a rill,

My sister dear I

May never shod a sweeter smile

O'er the glad earth than thine 1
June hath no roses in her lap

Thy blushes to outshine:
A darker pall than thy blaek halr

Night ne'er drow o'er the skies;
Whenee thy white brow, like breaking morn,

Gleams with thy starry eyes,
My sister fair I

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