A window, to those who have read a little in Nature's | windows." Yes, for the sake of air, (which ought to school, thus becomes a book, or a picture, in which her genius may be studied, handicraft though the canvass be, and little as the glazier may have thought of it. Not that we are to predicate ignorance of your glazier now-a-days, any more than of other classes. The glazier could probably give many a richer man information respecting his glass, and his diamond, and his putty, and let him into a secret or two, besides, respecting the amusement to be derived from it. be had night as well as day, in reasonable measure, and with precautions,) and for the sake of excluding, or admitting, what is to be seen out of doors. Suppose, for example, a house is partly opposite some pleasant, and partly some unpleasant object; the one a tree or a garden; the other, a grog-shop or a squalid lane. The sight of the first should be admitted as constantly as possible, and with open window. That of the other, if you be rich enough, can be shut out with a painted But a window is a frame for other pictures than its blind, that shall substitute a beautiful object for the own. Sometimes for moving ones, as in the instance nuisance; or a blind of another sort will serve the purof a cloud going along, or a bird, or a flash of light-pose; or if even a blind cannot be afforded, the shutning; sometimes for the distant landscape, sometimes ters may be partly closed. Shutters should always be the nearer one, or the trees that are close to it, with divided in two, horizontally as well as otherwise, for their lights and shades; often for the passing multi-purposes of this kind. It is sometimes pleasant to close tude. A picture, a harmony, is observable even in the the lower portion, if only to preserve a greater sense of drapery of the curtains that invest it, much more in quiet and seclusion, and to read or write the more to the sunny vine-leaves, or roses or woodbine that may yourself; light from above having both a softer and be visible on its borders or that are trailed against it, stronger effect than when admitted from all quarters. and which render a poor casement so pleasant. The We have seen shutters, by judicious management in other day we saw that beautiful plant the nasturtum this way, in the house of a poor man who had a taste trained over a very humble cottage window on several for nature, contribute to the comfort and even elegance strings, which must have furnished the inmates with a of a room in a surprising manner, and, by the opening screen, and at the same time permitted them to see of the lower portions and the closure of the upper, at through into the road, thus constituting a far better once shut out all the sunshine that was not wanted, and blind than is to be found in many great houses. Sights convert a row of stunted trees into an appearance of inlike these give a favorable impression of the disposi- terminable foliage, as thick as if it had been in a forest. tion and habits of the people within-show how superior they are to their sophistications if rich, and how possessed of natural refinement, if among the poorer classes. Oh! the human mind is a fine graceful thing every where, if the music of nature does but seize its attention, and throw it into its natural attitude. But so little has "the schoolmaster" yet got hold of this point, or made way with it, and so occupied are men with digging gold out of the ground, and neglecting the other treasures which they toss about in profusion during the operation, (as if the clay were better than the flowers which it produced,) that few make the most of the means and appliances for enjoyment that lie round about them, even in their very walls and rooms. Look at the windows down a street, and generally speaking, they are all barren-whereas the inmates might see through roses and geraniums, if they would; but they do not think of it, or not with loving know-harm is done by nearness to it, the air is better as the ledge enough to take the trouble. Those who have the advantage of living in the country or the suburbs, are led in many instances to do better, though their necessity for agreeable sights is not so great. But the presence of Nature tempts them to imitate her. There are few windows any where which might not be used to better advantage than they are, if we have a little money, or can procure even a few seeds. We have read an art of blowing the fire. There is an art even in the shutting and opening of windows. People might close them more against dull objects, and open them more to pleasant ones, and to the air. For a trifle of money, they might have beautiful colors and odors, and a pleasing task, emulous of the showers of April, beneficent as May; for they who cultivate flowers in their windows, (as we have before hinted,) are led instinctively to cultivate them for others as well as themselves; nay, in one respect they do it more so; for you may observe, that wherever there is this "fenestral horticulture," (as Evelyn would have called your window-gardening,) the flowers are turned with their faces towards the street. But "there is an art in the shutting and opening of A window, high up in a building, and commanding a fine prospect, is a sort of looking out of the air, and gives a sense of power, and of superiority to earth. The higher also you go, the healthier. We speak of such windows as Milton fancied, when he wished that his lamp should be seen at midnight in "some high lonely tower;" a passage justly admired for the good nature as well as loftiness of the wish, thus desiring that wayfarers should be the better for his studies, and enjoy the evidence of their fellow-creature's vigils. But elevations of this kind are not readily to be had. As to health, we believe that a very little lift above the ground floor, and so on as you ascend, grows healthier in proportion. Malaria, in the countries where a plague of that kind is prevalent, is understood to be confined to a certain distance from the earth; and we really believe, that even in the healthiest quarters, where no positive houses ascend, and a seat in a window becomes valuable in proportion. By and bye, perhaps, studies and other favorite sitting rooms will be built accordingly; and more retrospective reverence be shown to the "garrets" that were once so famous in the annals of authorship. The poor poet in Pope, who lay high in Drury Lane, Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane," was better off there than if he had occupied the ground floor. For our parts, in order that we may save the dignity of our meditations, and at the same time give evidence of practising what we preach, we shall finish by stating, that we have written this article in a floor neither high enough to be so poetical, nor low enough for too earthly a prose, in a room made healthy by an open window, partly screened from the observation of looking which, our eye is presented with at a distance, passers-by, by the thick foliage of various trees, overthe tops of cottages and other dwellings, and, still further off, the tower of a church. Some kindness of this sort, Fortune has hitherto never failed to preserve to us, as if in return for the love we bear both to nature and art. And now that the sincerity of our good will bas become known, let none dispute the account to which we may turn it for others, as well as for ourselves. LOVE UNCHANGING. And is it just or kind, my mother, To break my heart to soothe your own? And would you give me to another Than him I love and love alone? To every plighted word untrue- I never loved but once-no, never! With him alone, hand linked in hand, Dear mother, will your daughter stand! The thoughts you vainly call "romance," tacks of rheumatism and gout. With that soothing and delicate attention, so peculiar to woman, the nurse was bathing his feverish forehead; but he heeded not-yet he was soon to appear before the judgment seat of that God whom he had insulted, whose followers he had reviled, whose religion he had scoffed, whose vengeance he had set at defiance, whose very existence he had denied. He was in a delirium; and his mind was wandering back to those happy days of childhood, when, free from guile, he had lived under the fostering care of a kind and religious mother. Later in life, when he had become more familiar with the world, and had begun to mix with young men of his own age, he had been ridiculed for his religious impressions. At first he was astonished and shocked to hear their impious blasphemy, but soon his ear became familiar with it, and at last he was one of the most profane among them. But his thoughts were now in far happier days: he was talking with his mother and receiving her holy instruction; he heard her uplifting her silvery voice to Heaven in behalf of the wretched; he heard her whispering the words of consolation into the ear of the afflicted, and as she directed their thoughts to Through life, through life-the same, the same! Heaven, asking them in the simple eloquence of PARK BENJAMIN. THE CONTRAST-A SKETCH. THE INFIDEL'S DEATH-BED. 'Twas a dark and gloomy night in the depth of winter; the ground was covered with snow, and but few dared to brave the bitter coldness of the midnight hour. In a wretched hovel, in one of the most infamous parts of New York, reposing on some musty straw, over which was spread a tattered blanket, lay the Infidel. A few coals, with which some charitable hand had filled his fireplace, shed over the scene a dim and gloomy light by his bedside was placed a rude table, on which were some bottles of medicine; a few torn garments lay scattered about the room, everything indicated the most squalid poverty Near this sufferer, dying from dissipation and want, sat a woman who had undertaken to nurse him. She often shivered and drew her cloak more closely around her, as the cold wind poured through the crevices of the crazy walls. There is something in the whistling of the wintry blast melancholy to all; it reminds the poor man of the hardships, the privations, and the sufferings he must undergo, ere the genial warmth of spring returns-it reminds the merciful rich man of the unhappy fate of the many who are exposed to its violence without a shelter for their heads; it reminds the rich sensualist, as he calls for more blankets and a hotter fire, of future atVOL. V-67 scripture," Is there no physician in Israel? Is there no balm in Gilead?" This dream was pleasant. In sickness, in sorrow, even in the hour of death, the memory of a mother's love, of a mother's kindness, of a mother's anxiety, can drive away the mists of sorrow from the soul, with their cheering ray. His thoughts now reverted from those blissful scenes to the hours spent with his infidel companions-ravings and blasphemies the most impious, poured from his lips; now he was in a public assembly, advocating infidelity, ridiculing, and (such is the vanity of man,) as he thought, disproving the holy faith of his fathers; now he recalled the time when he dared even to trample on the sacred volume of God; and his dim eye saw the maddened populace follow his detestable example. Well might its remembrance convulse his frame with fresh agonies;-he clenched his hand--he tore his hair, he exhibited all the gestures of despairing anguish, until wearied by excitement he sunk into a troubled repose. The morning dawned, dark, gloomy and cold; a fit time for him to yield up his soul. The physician came, inquired how he had spent the night, felt his pulse, shook his head, and announced to him that his last hour was nigh. The sinner now, for the first time, became sensible of his condition, and in vain endeavored to drive away his awful emotions. "What is death?" said he; “'tis but a release from this miserable world-there is no hell,-I have proved it-there is no hell-but if there is-Oh God! what is the fate of the sinner; he lives unhappy, he dies miserable, and the flames of hell torture his sight even in the hour of death." | the south was sailing in monotonous rounds. The The nurse, rude as she was, saw his mental torture with pity, and urged him to look to Him who alone can save from destruction. But the name of his offended and injured God, only increased his blasphemies, and sunk him still deeper in the slough of despond. The door opened, and a companion who had first led him into the paths of vice, entered. The Infidel recovered himself for a moment: with a bitter smile he said, " Behold thy work! thou hast done this." The wretch approached, and began to pour into his ear his sophistical arguments. But the arguments of Infidelity, however efficacious in health and prosperity, lose all their virtue when life is drawing to a close. The dying man became pale with rage: "Leave me!" he cried. "Begone! you have poisoned my existence; you have directed my soul to hell; and dare you, in this hour, torture your victim!" The man slunk away rebuked, perhaps soon to die the same miserable death. The Infidel's delirium increasedhe raved, he swore, he blasphemed, until the nurse unable longer to bear the horrid scene, fled, and left him alone to die! admirer of our lovely world, standing at the window of the sick man, beholding the beautiful prospect-the James dying away in the distance, its silver bosom occasionally dotted by a white sail, or obscured by the thick smoke of a steamboat-would unconsciously exclaim," How beautiful is nature!" All these met the view of the dying man-the fields whose culture he had superintended, the garden whose flowers he had planted; the river on whose grassy banks he had so often strayed in pleasurable meditation; the birds to whose songs he had listened with so much pleasure in health, and whose nests and tender young he had preserved from the rude hand of the school-boy; old Cæsar, whom he himself had reared, who had followed and defended him in many perils-all these met his eye, and conspired, by their calming influence, to soothe his dying hours. He looked at his old friend, stretched out his emaciated hand to him, and whispered in the low tone of disease, “Here, Cæsar;" the noble animal sprang through the open door in a moment, and licked his master's hand. The old man was affected, he patted his favorite's head, and turning to his daughter said, Tongue cannot tell the agonies of his last inoments-no friend to smooth his dying pillow, none" Fanny, you will not leave old Cæsar to starve, to pay him "even the poor tribute of a tear." Suffice it to say, "He cursed his God-and died." The physician returned in the course of the day; he was dead-yet still his clenched hand, his convulsed limbs, the unearthly expression of his countenance, and the distortion of his features, showed how fierce had been the conflict before his spirit left its earthly tenement Truly, "The way of the transgressor is hard." THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH BED. when I am gone?" She spoke not, but an eloquent flood of tears answered the question. The dog seemed to perceive that something sad was going looked wistfully in the face of his master—a mason, and lying on the floor wagging his tail, he ter, whom he should never more follow, except to the grave. Yes, his last hour was come; his family were all assembled at his bed-side, and his eye often rested with a fond look on his affectionate wife, and lovely daughter, holding in her arms her first born; neither did he spare a look of regard on his faithful body servant, giving vent, in a corner of the room, to his grief, in a sincere flood of tears. His mind was composed- he had par'Twas a beautiful morning in the month of May, taken for the last time, of that holiest of rites, and the vernal breeze was wafting the delicate per- his soul awaited but the mandate of the Mighty fume of the rose and the orange-flower, through One, to wing its way to scenes of far purer bliss. the window of the sick man. The sun had scarce Yet one grief disturbed his dying hour―his sonbegun to pour down his ardent rays, and the inva- his only son, was not there. He had, a year lid's feverish eye, wandering over the green plains, before, despite the entreaties of father, mother and beheld at a distance the laborer slowly following sister, taken what property the liberality of his his plough. All was peace and loveliness;-the father had bestowed on him, and gone to one of the wren, with his subdued melodious voice, was most dissipated Southern cities, whence many a soothing the ear; and from the topmost branch of sad account of him reached his family. They had a neighboring tree, the mocking-bird was pouring hoped that the seeds of religion, so early implanted forth his inexhaustible stream of varied song. The in his heart, might still spring up; and had written clear whistle of the partridge was heard from the him numerous letters assuring him of entire forneighboring field; the hen with anxious solicitude giveness, if he would return. The old man's was calling her tender brood around her. The health sunk; and when he saw the hour of death house dog, wearied by his watch during the night was nigh at hand, he besought him in the most was enjoying a tranquil repose under the shade of affectionate terms to come to him, that his eyes a large aspen. In the clear blue expanse of Hea- might not be closed forever, without one last fond ven, unobscured by a cloud, the lazy vulture of took on his only son. They heard nothing from him, and his coming was despaired of by all; yet | still his father seemed to expect him,—and often as he felt that life was fast ebbing away, he would cast an anxious look down the noble avenue which led to the house. "Frank, my son," muttered he, "will you not comply with the last request of your dying father?" A cloud would settle on his brow for a moment, but it would be immediately dissipated when he beheld his little grandson playing in childish glee with his mother's dark ringlets. Again would he look down the avenue and heave a deep sigh. Not a word was spoken: they were all overwhelmed with grief. But now his anxious eye catches a glimpse of a horseman rapidly approaching-joyously he shrieked, "Tis Frank," and, overcome by the violence of his emotion, fainted. When he recovered, he found his son pale and toil-worn beside him-the instructions of those fond parents had not been lost; kneeling before his father, to beg forgiveness, he could only sob out, in the words of the prodigal son, "Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.' The face of the dying man lighted up—he laid his trembling hand upon his son's head" Bless thee, my boy," said he. He fell back-exclaimed in a low voice," now Lord let thy servant depart in peace"-a placid smile overspread his countenance-a slight shudder-and he was dead. "Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his!" Richmond, July, 1839. H. A. L. SCRAPS FROM MS. DRAMAS. BY PARK BENJAMIN. THE BEST CONDITION. Save me from riches! for the toil to keep Accumulated wealth embitters thought. And let me be preserved from povertySometimes the teacher sage of wisest maxims, Bettering the life, raising the perilled soulOftener a scourge, whipping men on to crime. That state is best wherein is competence, Peaceful acquirement of sufficient gain To feed and clothe the body and supply Necessities of knowledge; store of books, Scanty but well-selected, garden flowers Fresh to the sense, a little plot of groundGreen, daisied ground, just large enough For children to disport in-and a something left, A tithe of all incomings, at the close Of every term to give unto the poor. The man who can have these and nought beside, Nor yearns for golden mockeries, is blest-Blest in repose of mind that surely brings Contentment, length of days, and quiet sleep! CLOSE OF A PROLOGUE. As some lone traveller, whose searching eye Views on a cliff a rose of beauteous dye, Boldly resolves the cliff's rough wall to scale, And bring the floweret to the lowly vale; So has our author spent his dearest might To win your favor on this festal nightOh then, sweet friends, let your approving smile His toil compensate and his care beguile: Thus will the rose its balmiest fragrance give, And in his heart your memories ever live. LOVE'S REMONSTRANCE. Oh, chide me not, sweet mother!--It is true My hand without my heart, though wealth were mine I plighted unto him--I will be his, EARLY LOVE. The love of early youth-oh! how unlike The selfish passion of maturer years! The heart is all devotion-and the thrill A seraph feels while gazing on the shrine Of Heaven-revealing radiance is our own. Nothing above, around, appears too fair For a resemblance of the maid we love. Morn's smile is pale to her's-the latest star That melts into the sunlight is less pure! KNOWLEDGE. The more knowledge one attains, the more sensible he becomes of his ignorance; as the higher a traveller ascends a mountain, the more extensive prospect he sees, of regions beyond, which he has never explored. Pleasure is a shadow; Wealth is vanity, and Power a pageant; but KNOWLEDGE is extatic in enjoyment, perennial in fame, unlimited in space, and infinite in duration. In the performance of its sacred office, it fears no danger, spares no expense, omits no exertion. It scales the mountain, looks into the volcano, dives into the ocean, perforates the earth, enriches the globe, explores sea and land, contemplates the distant, ascends to the sublime; no place too remote for its grasp; no heavens too exalted for its reach. Anon. "RICHELIEU”—BY E. L. BULWER. Agreeably to notice, we now give scene the last of this play. The image and sentiment so beautifully expressed in the concluding lines, are, the author tells us, borrowed from a passage in one of the writings attributed to the Cardinal: SCENE. III.-Manent Richelieu, Mauprat and Julie, the last kneeling beside the Cardinal; the officer of the guard behind, Mauprat. Joseph near Richelieu, watching the King. Louis. Baradas at the back of the King's chair, anxious and disturbed. Orleans at a greater distance, careless and triumphant. The Secretaries. As each Secretary advances in his turn he takes the portfolios from the sub-secretaries. First Secretary. The affairs of Portugal, Most urgent, Sire ;-One short month since the Duke Second Secretary. The affairs of England, Sire, most urgent; Charles The First has lost a battle that decides Richelieu. Hush! [Looking at the contents.] A paper-here, Sire, read yourself—then take Enter DE BERINGHEN hastily, and draws aside BaradaS. Ha!-hold! Joseph. Fall back, son,-it is your turn now! Louis, (reading.) To Bouillon-and sign'd Orleans. [BARADAS draws, attempts to rush out—is arrested. ORLEANS, endeavoring to escape more quickly, meets JOSEPH'S eye, and stops short. RICHELIEU falls back.] Joseph. See to the Cardinal! Baradas. He's dying! and I yet shall dupe the king! Reign thou! Joseph. Alas! too late -he faints! Louis. Reign, Richelieu ! Richelieu, (feebly.) With absolute power? Louis. Most absolute -Oh, live! If not for me, for France! Richelieu. FRANCE! Louis. Oh! this treason! The army, Orleans, Bouillon, Heavens! the Spaniard ! Richelieu. (starting up,) There,-at my feet! To the First and Second Secretary. Ere the clock strike! One half his realm-craves moneys, Sire, and succor. (To Third Secretary, with a ring.) This to De Chavigny; (Oh that despatch !-my veins are fire!) Baradas. Reflect, Sire. Joseph. Humph! he knows the rest- No need of parchment here--he must not halt Of his army!--Ho! there, Count de Baradas, [As the Guards open the folding-doors, a view of the ante-room beyond, lined with Courtiers. Baradas passes thro' the line.] Louis, (aside.) I half repent! No successor to Riche-Ha!-ha! [Snatching DE MAUPRAT's death warrant lieu! Round me thrones totter! dynasties dissolve! Richelieu. Ah, Joseph! Child,— Would I could help thee. Enter GENTLEMAN, whispers JOSEPH, they exit hastily. Second Secretary. But Baradas. Pshaw, Sir! from the Officer.] See here, De Mauprat's death-writ, Julie! Julie. Oh joy! You are saved, you live--I hold you in these arms. Julie. No-never, Adrien-never! Louis, (peevishly.) One moment makes a startling cure, Lord Cardinal. Richelieu. Ay, Sire, for in one moment there did pass Into this wither'd frame the might of France! (Third Secretary, mysteriously.) The secret correspon- My own dear France I have thee yet-I have saved dence, Sire, most urgent, Accounts of spies--deserters-heretics- Re-enter Joseph with Francois, whose pourpoint is streaked with blood. Francois passes behind the Cardinal's attendants and sheltered by them from the sight of Baradas, &c., falls at Richelieu's feet. Francois. O my Lord! Richelieu. Thou art bleeding! Francois. A scratch-I have not fail'd! [Gives the packet.] thee! I clasp thee still! it was thy voice that call'd me Richelieu. A subject's luxury! Yet, if you must love something, Sire,-love me ! Richelieu. Your heart speaks for my clients, Kneel, |