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the distinctions of American society, and somewhat mystified concerning the rules of good breeding, which obtain in the fashionable circles of New York. The English public was of course edified with the result of his observations, when his book made its appearance.

After he had gone, Miss Ashcroft had leisure for reflection. She was not destitute of discernment, and although Mr. Russell Colt had, as if by a miracle, escaped detection, she was very suspicious that he was not all that he had pretended to be. Col. Harcourt, instead of meeting him with the cordiality of friendship, had evidently regarded him with contempt. Circumstances led her to compare this crest-fallen fop with the noble being whom she had herself despised, and the parallel thus instituted was not remarkably agreeable. She was not aware of the celebrity which Edward Raymond had been acquiring, and for the first time his full worth flashed vividly upon her. Could she have . lured the tassel gentle back again,' she would have deemed herself unutterably happy. She had the sense, however, to perceive that this would be impossible, and she was right in the conclusion. They have never met since that memorable visit to Screamy Point, and their paths are now diverging more and more. He is fast rising to a proud station among the sons of fame, and she is still painfully toiling for the suffrages of fools. E. B. C.


Star of the west !- thy dewy beam

Looks o'er our mingled joy and wo –
Reflected in the glassy stream,

Thou deign'st to light the world below;
While the waves ripple their reply
To the low breeze's evening sigh.

Star of the west ! — when Nature sleeps,

And the last glance of day is gone,
And when the balmy dew-drop weeps,

Thou shin'st and sparklest there alone,
And throw'st thy ray of silver light
On the dun breast of coming night.

Star of the west ! whose glories burn,

As if to guard while we are sleeping,
Ere we retire, to thee we turn,

And gaze where thou thy watch art keeping.
Thy gentle influence o'er us shed,
And with sweet slumbers bless our bed !

And Thou, who mad'st the glorious star,

And guid'st it through its heavenly flight,
Who guard'st us wheresoe'er we are,

Through radiant day or gloomy night;
Oh, shed around the willing heari
The light that never can depart!

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ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE. COLERIDGE says finely of Shelly, I think, that he lived neither in space nor time, but as if by the way. He meant, I suppose, that he was so little affected or interested by the circumstances around him, and the times in which he seemed to exist, as not to belong to the age or the world, but was as if he had stepped aside from the track of time, while the world, forgetting its passenger, moved by him. The world used a remissness in his case with which it is seldom chargeable. What agent of what line or mode of conveyance ever used the diligence, or had the success, of the world, in decoying or hurrying, nolens volens, into its moving machine, the hesitating traveler ? To turn the poet's words to our own account, all the world's a stage, * and with the capacity of an omnibus, the punctuality of a steam-car, and the inflexibility of a railroad, it chooses a direction, appoints a time, and finds a place for all the men and women of this moving sphere. So the world goes,' is the signal. The way is cleared. All things must govern themselves according to its times and motions. It would be a wiser folly to delay for one's private convenience yon train where we behold in simultaneous motion the dwellers in an hundred homes, than to question the right of the world to go when, and where, and at what jog, it pleases. If it is a sufficient apology for hurrying business, breaking engagements, neglecting friends, that the steam-cars leave at four; how much more for all omissions, deficiences, and imperfections, that's the world goes!'

He who has travelled much, knows very well that travelling is a condition of great license. One may then indulge in habits seriously condemned at home. Actions become innocent or indifferent which in a state of rest are esteemed injurious and immoral. The stage or the steam-boat are no places in which to be prim and decorous. One must relax a little from his dignity and propriety, and fall in with the prevailing tone of feeling. It is folly to assert his personal character, or strive to exert his personal influence, with companions of a day. Example cannot be of much weight, which is to be manifested for so short a season, and before men who are not expecting to see models of excellence. Forsooth, they are travelling too, and men do not support characters when they journey. The toil of the jaunt is enough, without the restraints of propriety. And where one finds this spirit, he must be accommodating. He must sink his peculiarities, be they those of virtue, decorum, or profession, in a stage-coach. He cannot, again, be very particular in the observance of his usual and conscientious habits, while he is moving from place to place. His private duties are inconvenient. This sleeping two in a room leaves him no privacy. In fine, he must wait till he gets home, before he can renew his accustomed habits and duties, of however private and personal a nature. He must get home, before he can act aright.

The world may be said to be on one everlasting journey. It is one great, crowded stage-coach. Accommodation is here, too, the principle of action. “So goes the world,' and at the signal we may fancy mankind with one universal rush, as if to the last coach, scrambling

* A stage,' as a stage-coach, is a new reading of Shakspeare, which is ‘respectfully submitted.

into the impatient vehicle. All have in their hurry left their characters, their habits, their principles, behind them. Behold them seated ! There is a universal congratulation at their successful settlement. A common journey excites a common interest, and without inquiry into, or minute observation of, the feelings, pursuits, and principles of their fellow travelers, it is ‘hail fellow! well met,' all around. Now is no time for nice distinctions. They are travelling. Shall private feelings and peculiarities be permitted to disturb the common sentiment of good will ? Will any one be rude enough to object to the general tone of feeling, or confess any distaste to the common topic of discourse? Is it not the only wisdom to fall in with the spirit of the place? Will one sit like a churl, in the corner of the coach, cloaked in unsociality? Will not silence be taken for stupidity the frown of virtue for the cant of hypocrisy - the dignity of rectitude for the self-complacency of pride? Can the world's passengers, a promiscuous throng, appreciate our motives, our good sense, our force of character ? Are they enough self-possessed in the exciting journey, to perceive, regard, and be influenced by a good example? Have not they, too, left their characters at home?' Did they not leave in a hurry, unprepared to meet honesty, decorum, or religion on their tour, and so have dressed themselves in their worst suit, careless of their appearance before the transient crowd? And is it not esteemed untravelled and in bad taste to expose to the joltings of the way and the crowd, and to the dust of the road, the starch and gloss of one's best attire ? The

passengers of the world' are like a traveler who roams the earth for a resting place. He looks forward to every stage as the end of his journey. He arrives there — looks about for a moment — the bell rings — stage ready!'- and loath to quit his companions of a day, he orders on his luggage, and is again a rover.

So with the stagers of the world; they anticipate the goal and the time, when a home different from the world shall receive them to its quiet bosom; where friends shall surround them where there will be motive, and reward for acting out the character they would exhibit, without the fear of any misconception - where there shall be rest and retirement for forming habits, acting up to principles, for living a conscientious and a Christian life. But as the journey progresses, the goal travels too. . So


the world,' rings in the ear of the way-worn traveler forever. There is no place so retired and out of the way that the world does not pass it. It dines, and sups, and rests, at every town in the country. It has its public house in every hamlet. Its bustle, its business, its hurry, its crowd, disturb the quiet of every village. The stage stands before the door of every house. The world, the world,' is heard calling up its passengers in every street and unnamed alley. There is one constant invitation to come, free and for nothing, (thus has the strong opposition of the world to virtue cheapened its fare,) and occupy its seats, and be whirled off upon its unending tour, where dust shall dim the eye, noise dull the ear, crowds deaden the feeling, variety cloy and corrupt the taste, till the senses become the inlets of impure, distorted, unreal, indiscriminate ideas.

In these days of universal travel, not to journey in the world is a narrow-minded, bigotted, or hypocritical prejudice. It is quitting the most wealthy, tonnish, and notorious society. It is confessing a distaste for



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the fashions, the diversions, the occupations of the polite, which are the fine arts of the age. It is to be, as it were, the servants of the world's proprietors, who, while they are on their foreign, fashionable, and finishing tour, are left at home to take care of the estate — to watch over and instruct the children — to feed and advise the poor, who hang on to the world's establishment; it is to be left at home to see that the fences are not broken down, that the gardens are not robbed, that the walls are not dilapidated; to look after the finances, without which the world's owners could not travel - in fine, to keep the world's great edifice from going to utter ruin, and its estate from hopeless bankruptcy, through the neglect and extravagance of its masters — to do all the work which enables them to be doing nothing. This it is not to travel in the world. It is to be the veriest drudges and slaves to the severest toil - to have one everlasting working-day. It is to be both school-master and guardian, both curate and constable, both steward and clerk — and this too, in an establishment which has fewer servants than masters. Can one hesitate wbich to choose to travel in the world and fly from toil, or to stop by the way' to perform all the work that the world makes ? It is to choose between riding over the road, and working upon it! To live by the way,' is to make this the deliberate choice. It is to withstand the thousand invitations of the day, to occupy a stuffed cushion in the easiest vehicle, with the most sensitive springs, and the gayest company, and to walk off from the even and easy track into the jolting, stony path by the way, encumbered with all the obstructions which the world has thrown froin its route, in its labors to smooth, and level, and speed its course. It is to stand still while all is in motion — to seem to the world's untiring, unflagging speed, a fixed, diminishing, evanished point. It is to be a sworn foe to all internal improvements which shorten the arduous routes over which honesty and principle are wont to plod, with their small and patient merchandise. This it is to live by the way

Nevertheless, commend me to a life by the way. If .space' is the arena of the world, and time' the spirit of the age, I would live neither ' in space nor time,' but as if by the way.' To all who have taken passage in the world, I give warning that it runs a dusty road. It seeketh the levelest and smoothest, but it is the lowest route. It crosseth sands and deserts, and the Pontine marshes. It never emergeth from the shade, nor ascendeth to the clear sunlight, and the wide and spreading prospect. It speedeth, till one cannot count the dwellings by the way, and observation wearieth of monotony. Danger is the only one of all the shifting company that sitteth constant by thy side throughout the journey

Docile traveler ! be advised. Quit thy resolve. Even at some risk, leap from the world's conveyance, and walk by the way!'— live by the way!

H. W. B. Cambridge, (Mass.,) August, 1836.


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He lay 'tween life and death. The priestly hand
Was lifted o'er him, and with tender touch
Laid the baptismal water on his brow -
While earnestly a solemn tone bespoke
A place in heaven, for that departing soul,
In Jesus' name.

The half-closed eye was still,
As a dead gem set in a lily's cup,
But the small hand thrill'd like a living bird,
Within the nurse's clasp. She was not there,
Who nurtur'd that fair boy, and day by day
Mark'd his smooth limbs to fuller roundness swell,
And garner'd up each tiny, gleeful shout
As music in her heart. She was not there.
Had she but known his peril, what had chain'd
That rushing traveler? "Not the mountain's steep,
Nor the swol'n flood, nor midnight's wildest storm,
Had won a thought from her, whose yearning soul
Was knit to his. Or had one darken'd dream,
'Mid the sweet intercourse of distant friends,
Brought the chang'd image of her cherub babe,
Not as she left him, fresh and full of sports,
But sleepless, starting from his cradle-bed,
His pearly teeth clos'd strongly in his pain,
With a harsh, grating sound, and the poor tongue,
Untrain’d to language, murmuring out his grief,
Or had she seen him from his favorite cup
Still put the spoon away, until his lip,
So like a rose-bud, sallow grew, and thin,
How had she burst away, to see him die,
Or die with him !

But now, 'tis all too late ;
One quivering gasp upon a hireling's breast

And all is o'er. Methought some secret tie
Bound him to earth. What did thy pale hand seek,
With such a groping eagerness, poor babe ?
Thine absent mother? Didst thou long to feel
Her kiss upon thine eye-lids, or her breath
Parting thy curls, and passing up to heaven,
A wingéd prayer?

Would that I could forget
The weeping of that mother, when she takes
That ice-cold baby to her bursting heart,
Or, even for that too late, doth frantic press
The pitying sexton for one last drear sight
Of her lost darling, in his desolate bed,
Most desolate, amid the mouldering throng.
O mother, mother! from thy cradled charge
Part never : while the fragrant life he draws
From thine own breast, cling to him, as the soul
Doth wed its clay. Is there a boon on earth
One half so precious as the infant's love
To her who bore him? Can the pageant world,
With its brief fashions, or the fever' d gaze,
Exploring earth's broad scenery, buy one hour
Like his sweet, breathing slumber in her arms?
O no, no, no!

So, take thy priceless meed,
The first young love of innocence, the smile
Singling thee out from all the world beside,
And if amid this hallow'd ministry
Heaven's messenger should claim the unstain'd soul,
Be thine the hand to give it back to God.

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