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The air was chilly, and rain fell dropping from the eaves, or was blown rashly against the glass; winds raved, shutters banged; and within, an occasional footfall was heard through the long and solitary corridors with the rattling of keys, and a door rolling back upon its gritting hinges, and now and then the scream of a maniac fell like the cold north upon his heart. “Heavens above! am I then to die,” he exclaimed, “in the forlorn solitude of this hideous bedlam,” and pressing his face upon his pillow wept again. Then tried to sleep. But, alas, poor Goslin! not all the drowsy syrops of the Dispensatory can medicine thy troubled spirit to its rest this night! The roaming Indian is happy who lays him down at eve in the comfortless wilderness by the forest tree: toads lurked in the corners of his cell, poor Goslin; adders hissed, and the rattlesnake folding his crackling scales, rattled his deadly larum!

But it was not until morning that he felt all the horror of his condition. Dreadful as was the night, he could have wished darkness to linger yet awhile upon the earth. One has a deeper sense of disgrace, next morning, and a mean look. He looked out, caught the light and shrunk instinctively; then withdrew his head under the

blankets, and gathering himself into a circle, as the wounded glow-worm, his clenched fists upon his aching brow, he wept inconsolably, and lay sobbing till the entrance of the doctor, and keepers, and apothecaries, barbers, leechers, and vesicatory preparations roused him up and gave a reaction to his stupefied senses. He remonstrated, he begged, he supplicated, he implored— But his prayer was listened to as is the voice of the seamew in the ravings of the storm. Force became necessary, and he was seized. A note from Roxalana arrived just in time with the proper explanations — hoping her prisoner had been treated kindly during the night, with the request that he be set forthwith at liberty. The mortification he endured at his return home for the loss of his honour and mustaches, I leave to the imagination of my readers. I will only remark that time, bear's grease and patience have restored them entirely; that he is again upon Broadway in curls radiant as Hyperion's, and corsets “patented by the king.” I will add, too, that the beauteous Roxalana almost shed a tear or two on learning how much the severity of his punishment had exceeded her intentions, and her sense of his transgressions.

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Not in a temple made with hands we worship thee, oh God But in this drear and lonely place, of heather and of sod. Not beneath groined and fretted roof, where meek devotion's eye Is lured from heaven, by crimson gauds and panes of curious dye: But where the tempest whistles through our loose uncovered locks, Where all above is lowering sky, and all around us rocks. Not in the proud humility of surplice, alb or stole; But in the garments of our crast, we offer up our soul. Yeal in the garments of our craft, with hands embrowned by toil, We call on thee to cleanse our hearts from earthly taint or soil. We know that thou art mighty, and we feel that thou art kind; That thou canst hear our suppliant prayer above the rushing wind; That thou canst see our upturned eyes in this sequestered dell, And that thy shield is over all, who serve and love thee well. Lord! look thou down upon us now, as thus we bend the knee.

Lord! make us strong in this thy cause to bless and worship thee. . Lord! pour upon our thirsty souls the sweet dew of thy grace. Lord! let thy people see thee in the spirit face to face. Lord! let thy people hear thee, now the haughty spoiler comes; Now the saints' blood stains the ingle side, the fire consumes our homes ; Oh, nerve our hearts to daring deeds, that we may flesh the sword On all who scorn thy holy name, who scoff thy holy word. Behold, oh God! the thousands of the fierce Amalekite, Have sought in these our fastnesses to goad us to the fight. Aye! even here we may not draw a free religious breath, But like a wilderness of wolves they hunt us to the death. Lord, God, Jehovah' full of faith, and earnest trust in thee, We go to cleave our conquering way through yonder hunian sea. We go, but not with roll of drum, or shattering trumpet blare; Nor silken banner, gold-inwrought, that mocks the troubled air; But solemnly and steadfastly, as serious men should move, Thy Wond our only breastplate, our only shield thy Love.


MADAM:-The enclosed pastoral has been written from hints given in the first elegy of Tibullus. It scarcely deserves the name of translation, though I hope that some faint glimpses of the graceful beauty, that has won for the original such universal admiration, may be seen in my paraphrase. As Tibullus does not lie in the way of your lady readers, perhaps this English imitation may not be unwelcome. Very respectfully and sincerely yours,



Let him who will, hoard heaps of yellow gold,
Or vast domains in servile culture hold,
And tremble sleepless, lest he hear afar
The trumpet heralds of the invader's car.
Secure in humble quiet, let me trim
My vines and orchards, till the evening dim
Call me from wholesome labour to retire
Where peace awaits me by my cottage fire;
Content to hope that autumn's faith will bring
Full wages for the industry of spring
And genial summer's sweat, sufficient store
Of corn and wine-vals running freely o’er.
He never trusts in vain, who owns like me
A Providence o'er soil, and vine and tree,
And fails not still his ready thanks to pay
At village church where rustics meet to pray,
Whose simple porch entwined with creepers green,
And tapering spire across the mead is seen:
Northere alone, but when by day a-field
Spontaneous praises from his heart will yield;
Or kneeling morn and eve at home besore
The household group, recounts their mercies o'er.
Yes, for thy sake, Almighty Source of all,
The poorer stranger at my door shall call,
Nor empty thence without God speed depart—
The widow's and the orphan's saddened heart
Shall sing for joy. as they unchidden glean
Their bosoms full my harvest sheaves between;
And not unfrequent, summoned all to share
My humble feast, the neighbours shall repair,
The lads and lasses innocently bold,
Or more sedate, gray-beard and matron old—
For them the satted calf I'll gladly kill, -
For them the cup with ruddy pleasure fill.
This is thy due, my God, the sacrifice
Of all most gratesul that to thee may rise;
So on my happy heart look mildly down, "
And all my toil with moderate plenty crown.
Let me contented, thus remote remain,
Nor make long journeys for uncertain gain;
Shunning the summer noon’s too ardent beam,
Prone in the shade beside some murmuring stream;
Yet ne'er averse, without excessive toil,
To break for tender plants the stiffen'd soil,
Or urge the slow-paced oxen, as I guide
The sharpened share with all a ploughman's pride.
And be it mine, with shepherd's love to bear
The bleating wanderer from its mother's care

Homeward again, and hush its wild alarms
In the safe shelter of my gentle arms.
So He, in whom I trust will guard my fold
From stealthy wolf, or human robber bold,
And not refuse the humble boon I crave,
My loaded vines from plundering birds to save.
Let the proud noble boast his wealthy store,
Enough be mine—I would not ask for more,
So that at eve I rest my weary form
On the dear couch by faithful love made warm.
Then, though without are winter storms, how sweet
To list the rain against the casement beat,
As, clasping fondly to my happy breast
My gentle wife, it lulls us to our rest!
Well do they earn the riches they attain,
Who tempt for commerce the tempestuous main;
Not all their gold or jewels would I buy
With one sad drop from Delia's anxious eye.
Boast thou, Messala, spoils of victory
Wrung from thy foes, or on the land or sea;
Let me fair Delia's captive blest remain,
Her fair fond arms my ever-welcome chain;
Nor shall I care tho’ I inglorious be,
My gentle Delia, in thy company.
With thee still let me live, and when I die
Thee shall I bless with my expiring eye.
Thou by my couch in gentle grief shalt stand,
And feel the last faint pressure of my failing hand.
Then wilt thou weep—thy bitter tears shall rain,
While I unconscious of thy tears remain,
Kissing the brow, the lips, whose icy chill
Answers instead of love's delicious thrill.
Then wilt thou weep—when following to the grave
Him, ev’n thy sond affection could not save.
Yet for my love, and for love's memory, spare
The rippling gold of thy dishevelled hair,
Nor wound upon the flints thy tender knee,
Their beauty spare, dear ev’n in death to me;—
And not a village swain or virgin then,
Tearless shall to their home return again
From the sad scene, but for thy sorrow's sake
And for thy loss, a day of mourning make.
Thus let us live and love while yet we may,
(For death will come at some too early day,)
And give to each our fond confiding truth,
Till age shall calm the transports of our youth.
With my snug farm, my cottage home, and thee,
Riches I scorn, and smile at poverty.

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“I suppose you have seen the newspapers this morning?” said Miss Rebecca Roulstone, in a low voice to Eunice Rookley, after the compliments of the morning had passed between them on meeting at a large grocery store much patronized by the Bostonians of the North End. “I cannot say I have,” replied Miss Rookley, “I came out directly after an early breakfast, to order our fall supply of groceries, (you know we get all these things by the quantity) and I really had no time to look at a paper, having my list of articles to make out. But why do you ask — Is there another arrival from Europe — It was only yesterday we had a letter from sister Merial.” “Oh! no”—answered Miss Roulstone—“the news I allude to is much nearer home. If you had seen the morning papers you must have found an announcement that would have surprised you. What do you think of the marriage of the Reverend Eliphalet Statkhouse?” “It is nothing to me” — said Eunice, after a pause, during which she first looked up, and then looked down, and first turned white, and then turned red. “Really—I beg your pardon”—pursued Miss Roulstone—“I thought he was an old admirer of yours”—lowering her voice. “That is no reason I should admire him” — said Eunice. Rookley, trying to be smart. “Certainly—and yet that is not an uncommon consequence of being admired. But you do not ask to whom Mr. Stackhouse is married.” “It is no concern of mine” — replied Miss Rookley—taking up a handful of rice from a barrel that stood near, and sifting it through her fingers—“I have not the least curiosity to know. My system is never to trouble myself with the affairs of other people.” “A most excellent system”—remarked Miss Roulstone — “if it can only be carried out — Mr. Balance, let me see some of your best figs.” Eunice Rookley thought she had inspected and selected every thing she wanted at the grocery store before Rebecca Roulstone came in; but she now recollected, bees. wax, ginger, and pearl-ash. She was unusually difficult to please in all these articles, and gave unusual trouble to the shopman that attended her. Miss Roulstone was also exceedingly fastidious in choosing her figs, and equally cautious in deciding upon some prunes. 10*

But, at last, both ladies turned from the counter about the same time, and proceeding to the door they stopped together over the same coffee-bag, on which they chanced to fix their eyes simultaneously. Still it seemed that, as far as regarded the merits of the coffee, “there was no speculation in those eyes.” “And pray”—said Eunice Rookley—quite inadvertently—“who is the person that Mr. Stackhouse has taken for his fourth wife?” “That person is a rich widow” — was Miss Roulstone's answer. “Not that I can possibly care”—said Eunice —“but where does she come from?” “Oh!—from the south.” “It can be of no importance to any one”—resumed Eunice—“but I have an idea that she is old, yellow, and sickly. Mr. Stackhouse must have married her for her money—and he may probably be a widower again before long.” “Oh! no indeed”—replied Miss Roulstone— “report says she is in the prime of life, and in full health.” “People in full health,”—observed Eunice— “are liable to sudden inflammatory attacks, which always go hard with them, at least usually. And now—(not that I shall remember it an hour hence)—but what was her name?” “Mrs. Ludlam Ludlow.” “A strange-sounding name! And now—to be sure it is not of the slightest consequence—but where did Mr. Stackhouse become acquainted with this person?” “Oh! at Newport—You know many southern people go there in the summer.” “I cannot imagine what Mr. Stackhouse could have been doing at Newport”—said Eunice— “Certainly, he has a right to act as he pleases, but I never supposed he would marry a widow.” “Well”—said Miss Roulstone—“now that he is always busy writing tracts, I suppose he cannot find time to court a young girl, or any sort of single woman.” The entrance of some other customers now interrupted this dialogue, which had been held in voices so low as only to be heard by the grocer, and his shopman, behind the counter; and by two shop-boys who were doing something among the boxes and bags near the door. Both ladies now left the store, and walked together as far as the next corner, exchanging their “more last words.” “Of course they themselves are the best 113


judges” — said Eunice—“but I wonder how the six Miss Stackhouses will like to have another step-mother brought home, and put over them?” “Oh!” – observed Miss Roulstone – “you know Mr. Stackhouse's children are used to that. Besides, this lady is reported rich.” “All southern people are reported rich"—said Eunice—“however, I hope this time it is really so; that there may be some excuse for Mr. Stackhouse's conduct.” “Well, really”—resumed Miss Roulstone— “it is just the same conduct that he has been pursuing always—looking out for wives, and marrying them.” “He is welcome to marry as often as he pleases"—said Eunice. “To be sure he is”—replied Miss Roulstone— “but I will now bid you adieu.-Have you seen Temperance Pumpton lately?—You know there was an idle report about Mr. Stackhouse when he was last in town, spending three or four evenings every week at her brother's.-There is no doubt that Temperance was desperately taken with him —she could think or talk of nothing else. I believe I will stop in, and make her a call this morning.” The two ladies then parted—each going her respective way. Eunice Rookley thought first of returning home; but recollecting that when any thing discomposed her she always felt the better for keeping herself as busy as possible, she resolved to go round, and order whatever was ne: cessary to replenish the household stock for the coming winter. So she went from the grocer's to the china-shop: afterwards to the ironmongers, the tinman's, the wooden-ware repository, and the upholsterer's. In the course of the morning she met several of her friends, and she found immediately that they had all heard of Mr. Stackhouse's new marriage. One of them congratulated Eunice Rookley on having escaped Mr. Stackhouse and all his children. Another complimented her on her good sense in having refused him; and Eunice did not then think it necessary to waste words in explaining that he had never asked her. A third friend delicately made no verbal allusion to the subject, but squeezed Miss Rookley's hand expressively, and sighed audibly, and gazed in her face with compassionate eyes. A fourth, who had just come from Rhode Island, assured her that there was no doubt in Newport, or even in Providence, that Mr. Stackhouse had been taken in by the widow Ludlow, and that he would rue his bargain. With this last lady, Miss Glaphyra Glapwell, our heroine had the longest talk; enquired why she had lately seen so little of her; hoped that in future she would be less of a stranger; and finished by inviting her to tea that very afternoon. “You look tired, Eunice”—said Madam Rookley to her daughter, when the latter had come down stairs from taking off her bonnet and changing her dress after returning home.


“I am tired”—replied Eunice—seating herself on the sofa-‘‘I have been all round at the dif. ferent stores, selecting and ordering the things that are wanted for the house at this season. But I have just found in the store-room a new barrel of winter-squashes, and a great keg of barberries. Where did they come from?” “Oh!”—replied Madam Rookley—“Cousin Andrew Macrimmon has been here, and he was kind enough to bring them. He is in town with a wagon-load of things from his farm.” Just then old Charty, the black cook, made her appearance at the parlour door saying—“Miss Eunice, I've been a suffering for you to come home to ax whether it would not be better to have that kag of barberries picked, and made into jelly, right off the reel: for fear if they're kept shot up they might take into their heads to forment, as they're apt to do, (like most other things) if left too long to themselves. And it's a sin to let any thing spile that's good to eat. So I've got all ready to go to stemming the barberries, whenever I’ve sent in dinner, that we may go at the jelly to-morrow morning betimes.” “Very well Charty” — said Eunice—“you can attack the barberries as soon as you please.” Charty, who was always in her glory, when preserving, cake-making, or any nice extra cookery was going on, now joyfully departed-Eunice rose from the sofa, walked to one window, and looked out; and then walked to the other window and looked out at that; then paced the room, and showed evident symptoms of nervous restlessness. “Eunice”—said her mother, looking up from the endless frill she was hemming—“what is the matter? You seem to have something on your mind—Are you doubting whether it will be best to make jelly of the barberries or to preserve them?” “I am not thinking of the barberries”—replied Eunice. “That's strange!”—observed the old lady. “Has any one called this morning?”—inquired Eunice. “Nobody at all.” “Then you cannot have heard the news.-Now I think on it, where is the morning paper?” “Mrs. Borrowdale sent for it, just after you went out, and before I had time to look at it; and, as usual, she has not returned it. But what is the news?—Is there any thing from Europe? for now I have a daughter travelling there, I am very anxious that all the kings and queens should keep on good terms, and not quarrel with each other." “It is of more importance, in the present times, that they should keep on good terms with their subjects: as I have heard Mr. Melworth say”—observed Eunice—“But the news I al. luded to, is something nearer home. In short, it concerns Mr. Stackhouse.” “What! is he married again?” “Dear mother!—how could you guess?”


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“Because there is nothing more likely. How could I guess any thing else. It is his way, you know.” “To think of his making a fool of himself for the fourth time!” said Eunice. “To tell you the truth”—observed the old lady—“I always thought that if he must make a fool of himself, he ought to have taken you. To be sure, second marriages are very silly things; but still, as they are always taking place, one has to give up to them. You know how very long Mr. Stackhouse has been visiting at our house. I was almost sure from the beginning he would have chosen you for his second wife; and it was my intention to have objected to it, for you were then a young girl, and I had no notion of your marrying a widower with half a dozen children. ever, he saw proper to be taken with Jane Appling's round unmeaning face, and married her, after a week's acquaintance, which is shameful in any man, much more in one that ought to set a proper example. Well, after he lost Jane Appling, I was sure he really had you in his eye for his third wife, and I intended, if he came to the point, to refuse my consent altogether; for now there were more children added, and he was a worse match than ever. But, after coming and coming to our house whenever he was in town, and staying by the week, and praising every thing, and making himself so agreeable, what does he do but go away off into the state of Maine and marry a girl there, who was said to have a fortune in woodland; but the wood turned out to be all on the far edge of the disputed territory, and the British came and cut it down without leave or license. Well, that wife died at last, and I thought he had had a lesson, and that next time he would take care, and try to get somebody whose property was in good North End houses, all let to safe tenants. And then you know he visited us stronger than ever; and said that all preserved pumpkin but yours was actually disgusting to him. And do not you remember how he dwelt upon the excellent bride-cake that he had eaten at Hepsey Doolittle's wedding, and which you had kindly made for her? You must have noticed what a cunning look he gave you whenever he said bride-cake, as if he really meant something. Well, I fully expected he would ask my consent to address you; and I made up my mind this time to object at first, but to agree afterwards, if he was very persuasive. For I thought I could see that you had made up your mind just in the same way. It was plain to perceive too that all Boston calculated on Eunice Rookley being the fourth Mrs. Stackhouse.” “All Boston calculated very wrongly, then”— said Eunice—“and so did you, too, dear mother. To say the truth, even if he had made up his mind after delaying through all his three widowhoods, I do not believe, when he came to the point, I ever could have made up mine to marry an old, fat, red-faced fellow, with eight children living out of the house, and six in it.”


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“Eunice, be mild”—said Mrs. Rookley—“I never heard you speak so severely of Mr. Stackhouse before. The truth is, he is only a stout, elderly gentleman, with a good colour. But who has he taken for his fourth wife?” “A widow from the south.” “Then she is rich, of course?” “He thinks so, no doubt; but he may find himself taken in, after all.” “Well, I cannot understand Mr. Stackhouse” —said the mother—“He knew very well, Eunice, what your father left you; and that it is all wellsecured, and no risk, and, besides, you are not a widow.” “That is the very thing, mother. Widows, somehow, always can get themselves off whenever they please; and single women have to wait till they are properly asked.” “Dear Eunice, be mild again,” said Mrs. Rookley; “I never heard you so bitter. You go quite too far, both about Mr. Stackhouse and the widows.” “You would not wonder at my being ruffled,” replied Eunice, “if you had heard all the disagreeable things that have been said to me to-day, about Mr. Stackhouse's marriage, as if I cared.” “And don't you?” said the old lady. Eunice walked again to the window, and looked steadfastly at a wood-cart which was about depositing its load before the door of an opposite neighbour; and she continued looking with much apparent interest at the sawyer, and the man that transferred the wood to the cellar. “Eunice,” resumed Mrs. Rookley, “I have an invitation for you from cousin Andrew Macrimmon. He says his wife is quite hurt at your not having made them a visit for so many years. You know that, formerly, you always spent a few weeks at Glenbucket every summer; and so did Merial when she was a little girl, and we could persuade her to go. Now, cousin Andrew will be in town again the week after next, and he is coming in his chaise, and he says if you will be ready, and would like to go home with him, they would all be very happy to have you again among them.” “Excellent people!” said Eunice, “I really feel as if it would be quite a relief to get away from the meddling and impertinence of the city. But, how can I leave you, dear mother, now Merial is away? You will be so lonely.” “Oh! I can ask Mrs. Prosey and Mrs. Dozey to come and stay here and enliven me. I know it will make them very happy, as they seldom get an invitation anywhere, except just to tea. Poor dull things! you know people can't help being tiresome, if they were born so, and it's their nature.” “No doubt, every body would be bright and entertaining if they only knew how,” was the sensible remark of Eunice. “To be sure they would. But, indeed, Eunice, I really wish you could make up your mind to go and spend a few weeks at Glenbucket. It

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