jected by the faculty. All they consented to, was, to order two members to ascertain by experiments the effects of the artificial magnet on the human body. The experiments proved beyond a doubt the existence of such an influence. And here rested the matter for the present.

This apparent indifference of the scientific institutions had caused so much abuse and imposition, that at last the government took the matter in hand; and on the 12th of March, 1789, the king ordered the Medical Faculty to appoint a committee of investigation. Two committees were accordingly appointed, one of which consisted of members of the Royal Institute, the other of members of the Medical Faculty. The result of the labors of this committee, with the farther history of Mesmer's career, will be given in another and concluding number.

STANZAS.

THEN take thy rest in that shadowy hall,
In thy mournful shroud reposing;
There is no cloud on the soul to fall,
No dust o'er its light is closing.'

DUST unto dust! - we have left her sleeping,
The green-wood above her its calm watch keeping!
"T was meet that beneath its softened shade
The grave of that slumberer mild was made.
Its stillness and beauty, so like her life,
Serene and unruffled by worldly strife;
A life like the flow of some hidden stream,
On the careless eye that may never beam,
But stainless and bright on its bosom bearing
Forever the brightness the sky is wearing!
Flashing to sunlight no foam-wreaths leap

W. G. CLARK.

From the waters which move, though they seem to sleep,
And the sweet wild flowers by its side which grow,

Alone of its cherishing kindness know.

She hath passed from among us in beauty and youth,

But her memory lingers, a witness for Truth;

Turning meekly aside from the world and its dross,

In the by-paths of Duty still bearing her cross;

A home-flower, unfolding its richness alone

Where the warmth and the light of home-kindliness shone!

We toil on our way, wearing fetters of sin,

Seeking joy from without, while its fount is within;

The ear that is turned to the world and its strife

May not hear the sweet flow of the waters of life;

We may toil on forever, yet never may find
In the deserts of earth the Shiloah of mind!

Unsatisfied, sad and bewildered we roam,

In this wilderness world, still away from our home;
And those who have wandered the least from their rest,
Are sometimes, in mercy, the earliest blest;
Having kept though but briefly the faith that was given,
Are gathered like lambs to the true fold of Heaven!

'T was the will of our Father! - and gathered to-day,

We saw her, the loved, borne forever away!

But stillness and faith came as comforters there,

And the mourners were bowed in the utterance of prayer;
The broken heart leaned on the promise of God,
And the bruised spirit kissed, in submission, the rod.

E. H. WHITTIER.

THE LONE WIDOW.

A. LAMENT.

SHE was a LONE WIDOW. What words more expressive of utter desolation than these? What more adapted to elicit the sympathy of a cold, heartless, unpitying world? The oak tree may spare the ivy, and the elm the vine, yet is not their strength diminished, though they have lost the ductile foliage, and the rich and purple grape. But you may not reverse the case, or the fragile plants are shorn of their comeliness; they languish, they droop, they are trodden on the cold earth.

She was a LONE WIDOW. Her staff, her support, on whom she had leaned so long and so constantly, in storm and in sunshine, was taken away, and she was left to battle with the world's sorrows, and deceits, and vanities- alone! Her 'gude man' was her elder, by a score of summers. He was not made of iron, though some folks might have thought it. He had his own troubles, and he sank beneath them at a good old age. It was a sad scene presented at his death-bed. Not

a child looked on to witness the last moments, or to receive the last blessing, of a parent. But she alone, the wife of his bosom, hung over his pillow, convulsed and sobbing. He grasped her hand-he raised his eyes imploringly-his lips moved - they uttered a few words almost inarticulate and they were burdened with a request that she would never be married to another. He essayed yet again to speak. To her he gave all his worldly goods, and they were many; to her his possessions, without division or reserve; and the condition was, that she should never be married to another.

in

She consented, with a hesitancy occasioned only by choking sobs. For the last time, he looked up inquiringly, and he asked, 'Never ?' And she answered, NEVER!' So she closed her good man's eyes peace. And she arrayed herself in the deepest mourning, followed him decently to the grave, and having watered it with a flood of the bitterest tears, returned to her desolate house

A LONE WIDOW.

It was the winter time; but not more cold is the earthy clod, than the heart bereft of its beloved. She remembered often the words which her good man had spoken, and oh, she thought it was a crying sin, that widows should be prevailed on to depart from widowhood, forgetting who lies cold in the sepulchre, and to whom they had pledged their early love; that they should exchange their weeds. for the gorgeous colors and butterfly robes of vanity, and go forth brides-yet not brides- a spectacle to the world. It was unseemly, it was immodest. But she would never, never lay aside her robes of mourning; she would go down weeping to the grave

WIDOW !

A LONE

Her neighbors felt for her forlorn estate. They came to console her, and to mingle their tears with hers. Their efforts were wellmeant, but unavailing. They could not stay the torrent of her grief. They said that time would do wonders,' so they let it have full sway. But they spoke of all the good deeds of her good man. Pleasing, yet

melancholy reminiscence! She loved to allude to the words which he spake, and to all the dear works of his hands. There he first courted her, beneath the shade of the old elm-tree; there they first walked in the sweet season of youth; there he used to sit when he played on the viol. Oh! how sweet were the tunes which he played on the viol! But he was gone, the best of men, and she, she was LONE WIDOW !

A

When the man of God spake of the bereaved, in the sacred desk, or when in social intercourse he clasped her hand, and besought her to forget her sorrows; (for he was kind, and affectionate in his nature, middle-aged, and unmarried;) when he told her that He who fed the ravens, and did not let a sparrow fall to the ground without his knowledge, would take care of the fatherless, and the lone widow, she wept with redoubled violence; and in the midst of quick-coming sobs you might have heard the echo of those words of bitterness

WIDOW.

A LONE

She lived in her desolate house, without a friend to fill up the blank which her good man's death had occasioned. It was a pleasant house, and looked upon a pleasant garden. There herbs, and salubrious plants, and flowers, grew in profusion: but what is all the luxury of sweets, to those who mourn for the departed? Who planted the fragrant catnip, and the thyme? Who kept those beds so clean, that not even a weed intruded? Her good man. Now she had only left her her ancient cat, which followed her steps when she walked in that pleasant garden. There were those who thought that she needed a protector and a friend; and when they cast in their minds the many who could supply her need, they could not forbear at last remarking among themselves, that it was very queer she should remain LONE WIDOW !

A

She had a heart which was kind and benevolent, and was not unmindful of the poor and friendless, nor did she ever send the needy from her door until they carried with them the mite of a lone widow. She was not parsimonious in any of her ways. Her robes were dark, but of the finest texture; her caps were made of costliest lawn; for caps became her matronly face right well, and were not unbecoming to the peach-like bloom that lingered on the cheeks of that

WIDOW !

LONE

Year after year passed away, and time had indeed wrought wonders. But although the rank grass waved over the grave which had been watered with plentiful showers, she had not forgotten 'the vow interrupted only by sobs,' and she still remained A LONE WIDOW !

Many suitors came to solicit her hand. They made honorable offers. They would take care of her property, they would love, honor, and cherish her forever. But she drove them all, all into despair, and told them (they could hardly credit her words) that she should re

main

A LONE WIDOW !

But who can foresee the course of events which mock even the art of divining? At last a skilful lawyer aspired to her hand, and wished to make her his fair client. He came, he saw and he conquered. He came - as soon as he heard that in such a place there lived such a lone widow. He saw-that report had spoken only the truth of her charms; and he conquered her remaining scruples. 'T was

VERDICT.

in the 'merry month of May, when blithe birds are singing.' They sat together in the fragrant porch, the skilful lawyer and that lone 'widow. A sweet briar strayed near, with its branches; a honeysuckle mingled its odors. He preferred his suit in soft accents, she listened with an attentive ear. He pleaded eloquently at the bar of her heart. She was his indulgent judge and jury. He waited patiently for a She said NOTHING. He pressed her hand warmly in his, and with a most wooing look, gazed up into the dark eyes of that lone widow! She sighed. He asked her why heaved her bosom with that sigh? She spake of her good man, of his lands and tenements, which would be forfeit. He told her that he would take care of that, and he was a skilful lawyer. Then the dark clouds were put to flight which hovered over her brow, and the sun shone brighter, and the birds sang sweeter, and the budding spring broke out into blossom. She followed him shortly to God's altar, and with all her worldly goods did him endow. He was unlike her good man; but I throw the veil over her story. For having forgotten the vow which was 'interrupted only by sobs,' she had taken that skilful lawyer, for better, for worse, and was no more

A LONE WIDOW !

IS THE LATIN A LIVING LANGUAGE?

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

IT may be considered a question of considerable curiosity, and of general doubt, whether the Latin language is the vernacular tongue, or spoken language, of any modern nation. It is the purpose of the present short essay, to maintain the affirmative of the proposition. I shall endeavor to show, from the observations of travellers, and by comparison and analogy, that the language among the common people of Wallachia is the Latin. We may in the first place, however, refer to a French writer by the name of Rivet, who, in speaking of the Romaunt, or court language of France, in the tenth century, says that the Latin was then of the common people, though vitiated by their corruptions, or an intermixture with that of the Franks and Burgundians. The same may be observed of the language of Spain and Italy, about that period, although corrupted with an intermixture of the language of the Visigoths, the conquerors of the former, and of the Goths and Vandals of the latter. The pure Latin was still preserved by the Catholic priesthood of both states; and although it is still used by them as a learned language, and one of considerable use to the brotherhood, in their travels through foreign countries, it is not pretended to be the popular tongue of either nation.

6

The first modern traveller who has brought to our notice the curious fact of the existence of the Latin language as a vernacular tongue of a whole nation, of considerable extent, is the Rev. Doctor Walch, in a journey from Constantinople to England, through Roumelia, over the Balkan or Mount Homus, through Wallachia and Hungary, across the Danube, in 1826 and '27. On his entrance into Wallachia, he observes: About eight o'clock, we arrived at the village of Prepona, where was a post-office situated under a lofty mountain, called Rosay, among the Carpathians. The man who came to wait on me, had an immense tumor under his jaw, apparently ripe for lancing. I naturally shrunk back when the Keaya or agent, said to the man, in distinct Latin, 'Sepone!' and the man stood on one side. He then said to me: "Tumor non est pesti, domne gunsha.' I now found not only that the peasants spoke Latin, but that they were afflicted with tumors on the neck, like goïtres. A very little dwarf now came up to me: I inquired if there were many such dwarfs here. The Keaya answered: Sunt multi, innumerabile.' Their language must have been the remains of that phraseology which the Romans left the Dacians sixteen hundred years before. In fact, the words domine and uxor are not Italian words; and people living in the East, who derive their language from the Italian, say seigneur and moglie.

'But the dress of these peasants is a farther confirmation of their origin. It consists of a tunic or shirt, which comes down to their knee, hanging outside, confined in the middle by a zone or girdle of leather. The feet are enclosed with sandals, tied over the instep with thongs, and a pallium or cloak is carried over the shoulder, which, when the weather is cold or wet, is wrapped around the body. I took