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“ Struck the wild warblings of his lyre.” From the .Imtricnn Monthly Magazine. THE DYING ALCHYMIST. The night wind with a desolate moan swept by, _ And the old shutters ol the turrent swung Screaming upon their hinges, and the moon, As the torn edges of ths clouds flew past, Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes So dimly, that the watchful eye of death Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. 90000000 • 0000000 The fire beneath his crucible was low; Yet still it burned, and ever as his thoughts Grew insupportable, he raised himself Upon his wasted arm,and stirred the coals With difficult energy, and when the rod Fell from his nerveless fingers,and his eve Felt faint within :s socket, he shrunk back Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips Muttered a curoe on death! The silent room From its dim corners mockingly gave beck His rattling breath; the hummim/ in the fire Had the distinctness of a knell, and when Duly the antique horologe brat one, He drew a phial from beneath his head, And drank. And instantly with his lips corn pressed, And with a shudder in his skeleton frame, He rose with supernatural strength, and Sat Upright, and communed with himself. 1 did not think to die, ’Till I had fiuished what I had to do ; I thought to pierce the eternal secret through With this my mortal eye; I felt—Oh God ! it seeemeth even now This cannot be the death-dew on my brow. 9000000 0 0000000 • 0000000 00000000 'Twas morning and the old man lay alone No friend had closed his ey r elids, and hislips Open and ashy pale, th’ expression wore Of his death struggle. His long silvery hair I .ay on his hollow temples thin and wild. His frame was wasted, and his features wan And haggard as with want, and in his palm His nails were driven deep, as if the throe Of tlte last agony had wrung him sore. The storm was raging still. Ths shutters swung, Screaming as harshly in the fitful wind, And all without went on —as aye it will— Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart" Is breaking, or has broken in its change. The fire beneath his crucible was out: The vessels of his mystic art lay round, Useless and cold as the ambitious hand That fashioned them, and the small silver rod Familiar to his touch for threescore years, Lay on th’ alembrics rim, as if it still Might vex the elements at its master’s will. And thus had passed from its unefpial frame A soul of fire—a sun-bent eagle stricken From its high soaring down—an instrument Broken with its own compass. He was bprn Taller than he might walk beneath the stars And with a spirit tempered like a god’s, He was sent blindfold on a path of light, And turned aside and perished! Oh how poor Seems the rich gilt of of genius when it lies Like the adventurous bird that hath out flown Ilis strength upon the sea, ambition wreck’d, A thing the thrush might play, us she sits Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest. From the Lady's Book. REMEMBER ME 1 Afar, to woo in distant lands The smiles that Fate denies me here, I tiy and burst the silken bands That absence will but more endear : But though no more at evening close, We r.c-t beneath th* accustomed tree, To watch the twilight shut the rose — At that calm hour—remember me 1 And when the twilight dim is o’er, And the bright moon rides high in heaven— When, through the blue aerial ilood Sparkle the silver lights of even— Then, while the placid radiance beams On marble brow and snowy hand— There, in the light of rosy dreams, Let thine[adorer’s image stand. And when again returning day, Fraught with new bliss to thee and thine, Wakes thee from visions bright and gay, To bend at Heaven’s eternal shrine — There, while thy grateful thoughts arise, And God, propitious smiles on thee— ■ Before the Great Supreme, all-wise, In holy pray’r —remember me ? Thus would 1 live in ev’ry thought, Blended with all of dear ami bright— Jlcjifiir thee in each favoured spot, A thing’of happiness and light ? Thus think of him who loves the well— Would the pale moon my page rniirht be, On her clear disc each hour would tell How fondly I remember thee. S. EPIGRAM.—By T. S. Ciolidge. Sly Belzebnb took all occasions To try Job’s patience and constancy. Ho tuok his honor, took his health . He took his children, took his wealth, His servants, horses, oxen, cows— ■% But cunning Satan did not take his spouse. But heaven, that good from evil, And loves to disappoint the devil, Had pre-detennined to restore, T'iv<>-fold all he had before ; His sonants, horses, oxen, cow?— •short-sighted devil not to take his spouse. <On the murriege of Mr. Muddto Misa Johnson. Lot’s wife, his said, in days of old, For one rebellious fault, Was tam’d, un we are plainly told, Into a lump ofsalt. The same propensity to change, Still runs in female Wood, For here, we see a thing as strange, A fearilu turn’d to MudJ. tub MACON AO V EKTiSER, AN p AOiili) ti'LTiilt AL AN 0 AiEHUIANY ILK INTELLIGENCE K. isasauLiujg'g* THE MURDERER’S DEATH. The sun went down amidst a sea of fiery looking clouds, while a fresh breeze spring ing up unexpectedly from the north-east; canlc sweeping over the waste of moor and bog, driving before it a dark grey gigantic mass, more like a chain of uprooted moun tains travelling through the air, than an as semblage of unsubstantial vapour. \S hen right over head, the eanopy of clouds settled and paused, the breeze lulled, then died away in faint irregular moanings, until all was as still as if Nature herself was holding her breath of a we.' Then the clouds opened like the rending of a veil, giving to view, not a flash, or a sheet of lightning, but something like a mighty conflagration of blasting, su pernatural light, accompanied, not followed, by a crash as if ten millions of angelic cha riots were chasing the ruined host of Lucifer from the uttermost verge of heaven into the bottomless abyss of the damned. The black ness that followed the roar of the thunder was so sudden and startling that for an instant I thought l was struck blind for my daring har dihood, in looking with a bold and over-curi ous eye at the awful and dangerous myste ries of elemental strife; but again the clouds rolled back like mighty gates, again the light ning sprang forth, and the thunder pealed, and then, down, through the pitchy darkness, came a ifood, a cataract, a Niagara of rain, such as never since the days of Noah deluged an unfortunate bog-trotter like myself. I plunged and flloundered through the solid sheet of water, until 1 got to an elevated sit uation, and there l sat down upon a rock, for as to proceeding until the rain lightened, the thing was out of the question. I suppose about two sours passed in this a greeable situation ; at length, as if more from want of means than inclination, the torrent abated; and though, the rain still fell in what would be counted a very severe shower un der ordinary circumstances, yet as it is no longer threatened to beat me to the ground, and then float me off to the nearest river, 1 judged it expedient, not to pursue my route, for that as 1 told you 1 had voluntarily lost, but to seek the shelter of the nearest cabin, and there wait until the friendly morning should come with -its welcome “vade mccum ” to throw new light upon the subject, and help me out of my dilemma. 1 had not proceeded more than half a mile, when the sullen voice of rushing water warned me of the proximity of a mountain stream, swollen to a dangerous torrent by the heavy rains. Steering myself cautiously by the sound, I reached what seemed to be a rude by-path ; 4lld not being in a very fastid uous mood, 1 was right well pleased at find ing myself in a few minutes in front of a ru inous looking hovel, through whose manifold chinks a faint light glinnn rod, notwithstand ing the lateness of the hour. Several minutes passed without any no tice being taken of my application. I thought the light appeared to move; but, though I listened attentively, 1 could not hear the sligiitest noise, except a low snoring, ns of one in a drunken sleep. “I must disturb these revellers,” thought I, “unless I can re concile myself to passing the night in the bog, in preference to interrupting their gentle slumbers.” So, forthwith, 1 assail, and the door hand and foot, after a fashion calculated to satisfy the inmates that if they took much more time to consider before they made up their minds to admit me in the usual wav, 1 wis likely to save them all further trouble on the subject, by effecting an entrance into their respectable mansion in the manner of house-breakers and heroes: that is to say, by storm. A harsh-voiced female instantly ac knowledged the force of my reasoning, with “Asy—asy—take your time—ye’re always in a hurry,” at the same instant opening tin i door so suddenly and readily, that die the! sleepers whom they might, it was quite clear that she was not one of them. 1 never, inth< course of my life, saw so repulsive-looking a being as that women. Her age might be a bout five-and-thirty; her strong-built, muscu lar figure, rose so considerably above the fe male height, as to giye her the appearance of a man in disguise, and the harshness of her! voice in some measure countenanced the idea but her features, stamped mere deeply than any I have ever seen before or since with the indelible traces of fierce and evil passions and a licentious life, were those of a woman. 1 ler ilress was squalid and neglected: but her long hair, once as black as jet, but now ting ed with grey, less as it seemed from years, than from the premature old age of misery and care, and, it might be, guilt, hung in matted elf-locks over her face and shoulders. In ont band she held a candle, and cautiously sha ded it from the wind with the other, so t hat the light feil full upon her face and figure, while I remained in the shade ; and in spin of all 1 have said, and though 1 repeat that 1 never saw a human being from whom 1 felt so much inclined to draw back, with that un definable, instinctive feeling, which seems implanted in ns bv nature to give warning of the approach of guilt, yet I could not help 1 seeing that, changed as they were, that fact ■and figure had once been beautiful and ma jestic; but, as it was, so strong were the Knowing that the part of the country I was in was free from disturbance, though the em bers of insurrection, still glowed in the south ern counties of Ireland, the .worst I apprehen ded from intruding into the cabin at that un seasonable hour, was finding myself amidst the orgies of a knot of bibacious peasants, en joying the festivities of a “Sliebca n”anglic, house of concealment; that is to say, a house where people get drunk in secret, not be cause the act is disgraceful or frowned at by the law, put because the whiskey is of that illegal description 1 have spoken of already ; and as I well know the manners and language of the people, and have not in the least the look of a gang r, 1 apprehended no danger beyond that of being obliged to join in the debauch, my scruples about which, to say the truth, the rain had in a great measure wash ed away ; I saluted the door with the half confident, half-dillidcnt knock of an unex pected guest, sure that whatever difficulties he may encounter in getting admittance, when ©nee fairly in he can make himself welcome. traces of recent and powerful emotion, that she looked more like a witch, disturbed from same damned rite, than the poverty-stricken tenant of an Irish cabin. I suppose I need hardly tell you, that in the minute descrip tion 1 have given you, I have embodied much more than the first impression of my hasty glance when the cabin door was flung open; but, I promise you, cnongh occurred after wards to fix all I saw that night, in my recol lection to the longest day 1 have to live.— “Come in,” said she, too busily occupied in shading the candle from the gust of wind, to bestow a glance on me. “Ye needn’t be al'eard of disturbin’ him now—come in quick, and shut the door.” Though I saw that she evidently mistook me for someone she ex pected, I did as I was desired, and then turning round from the closed door, our eyes met for the first time. The woman drew back a step or two, and holding up the light, eyed me in silence from head to foot with a most sinister look. “Who the devil are ye?” said she at last, “and what d’ye want here this hour of the night ?”—“My good woman,” said I, “I am a stranger, and 1 only want a little shel ter until daylight.”—“Your good woman ! W r ho tould ye 1 was a good woman ?—don’t believe them the next thing they tell ye.— And you’re a stranger, and only \v%nt shelter, throth, an’ I dare say, or it’s not here ye’d come to look fo‘r it.” Just then the snoring noise 1 spoke of, and which seemed to come from a pallet in a corner of the cabin, ceased abruptly. The woman walked slowly to the side of the bed. Upon it lay a man stretch ed upon his hack at full length. She felt his temples, and his side, ns if to ascertain if pulsation remained, holding the light close to liis face; hut a single glance to his distorted features was enough to show that he had at that instant, passed the final and bitter ago ny of death. She set down the candle at the head of the corpse, and stood tor ail instant with her hands folded and h r lips moving.— Then turning abruptly to ine.— ‘ Are ye a ministhcr?” said she, “because, if ye are, sa. sonic o’ yer prayers: any body’s prayers ’ll bo betther nor mine.” 1 assured her that liiough I did not belong to the sacred profes sion, yet I sincerely compassionated her deso late condition, and would willingly assist her o the utmost of my power, taking out my purse at the same time as the best and short est proof of my sincerity. My singular com panion bent on me a look ef solemnity not unmixed with scorn. “ Put up your purse young man,” said she, “ and leave oil’condo lin’ me. Ido ’t want your money—an’ Pm | not in grief. But mind what Pin sayin’.— Ye say yc want sh-Iter till day-light—take my warnin’, and go look for it somewhere else, or may be ye’ll never see daylight a gain—lave the pi :c : —Jr re’s neither look nor grace in it.” “1V../,” said I, “what danger can happen to me from remaining here for a ew boar.. ? You arc alone, I sup pose.”—“Yes,” roplie "I she, sternly : “yes— -1 am al ,ne—here, an ’ in the world—but Pll soon be where there's company enough.”— She paused for a me- c it, as if to master her feelings, and rocai and collect her scattered thoughts; ar. so w: V and convulsed was the expression pf ner countenance, while, with a powerful effort, and without uttering word or groan, she controlled an obvious tenden cy io something ike epilepsy, that, for the i stunt, I was afraid both mind and body would give way in the struggle, and, with an impulse of pity which I could not check, 1 caugtit her in my arms to prevent her from falling on the fio r. The effect of his tri lling act, not of kindness, jut mere humani ty, was magical. The touch of human sym pathy struck to the fountain of her grief like the wand of the prophet to the waters of the rock: and the unhappy creature burst into a flood of tears, so passionate, vehement, and overpowering, iliat it resembled ra her a struggle of nature fer life and death, than any ebullition oi mortal grief I had ever be held. At last, when the hysterical sobbing suffered her to articulate—“Ye’re the firsi,” said she, “that’s spoke a kind word, or looked a kind look at ine for many a long day, and may God Almighty ant ye an innocent life anil a happy neat , an : may the Heavens be ye’re bed lor the same. Many and many a weary hour I’ve been prayin’ to be able to cry, an’ 1 didn’t think there was a tear left in my heart; out God was good to me, and gave me leave to cry at last: so let me alone a little, an’ I’ll he better by and by.” I saw, of course, that the best thing I could do was to let Nature take brr own tin. ,so I turned away from h r at once, o. i employed inysett’ in examining the cabin it. :.if. Every thing that met my yc in this house of death, spoke of the most abject, hopeless poverty ; that st, to of sci: u-andonment and despair, when the wrote 1 gives up the con test with his destiny, ;nd sullenly resigns him self to his doom. A low ruinous partition had divided the cabin into two rooms ; but the door and door-frame were gone, and the grea t< r part ol’the partition it- if had fallen down and cumbered the floor, from which the in matt s had not even taken the trouble of shovelling it away, though, to all appear ance, it had remained there a considerable time. The entire furniture consisted of two or three broken stools, a crazy dresser, un | garnished by a single plate, a large wooden j chest, and the wretched pal ct where the dead man lay; and so scanty was the covering of; bed-< lothcs that lay upon the body, that I could judge of his proportions almost as well as if he were naked. Though emaciated, ei ther by hunger, or wasting sickness, he had evidently been a man of a most powerful frame. He appeared to be several years ol der than his wretched companionand if ev er l saw “Despair and die I’Vritton by the mortal agmy of an abandoned villain, it was on the brow of that man. In his wildest re veries, Dante never dreamed of any thing half so horrible. I could have thought that the guilty spirit had been suffered, for an instant, to return from the place of doom to whisper the awful secrets of the grave to its old com panion ; or, that half in life and half in death, while looking down info the gulf, before the j final spring, it had left (like the footsteps of j a suicide on the brink of a precipice, stamped' deep u ith the energy of his fatal plunge,) the appalling traces of its despair on the sense less clay it had abandoned, —so intense and’ powerful 'sthe painful expression of the I final panj Inch tears the soul out of the] body, and the mental spiritrial horror of the soul itsolf at the thoughts of the doom to,, which it was about to be borne on the apings of death. I turned, shuddering, from i ghastly corps, as from a dark vision of limit j Bv this time my companion r> covered J her self possession. Her eveggas dahn and settled, but full of serious purpose: “Young man,” said she, “ it was an unlucky hour that ye came to this house o’ sin, to see a bad man die an unhappy death, without prie.-t nor prayer, nor friend, to say a blessed word, nor heart heart to think a iioly thought, an’: make his way asy. If yc had taken my word and gone ye’re way when I hid yc first, it might have been better for you, may be, but worse for me, for I’d have missed the only kind eye that ’ill ever look on me in this world agin—but mind me now, for the time is short. There’s them coinin’ that I’d cut the priestls throath afore the althar of God for a goolden guinea, let alone the money in ye’re purse, an’ the watch in ye’re pocket, and thim chains o’ goold ye have twisted a bout ye, like a lady, jist as if ye wanted to coax somebody to murther ye; an’ him that’s lyin dead afore ye ’id be the first to do it if God ’id let him—ye’ve stayed here any how, till it’s safer for ye to wait till mornin’ an’ take chance, than venthur out th’ door whin maybe, every step ye’d take ’id be to meet thim that hould ye’re tongue —iv ye stir, or spake, ye're time’s come—here they are” and sure enough, I heard the voices and foot steps of several men approaching the hut. Silently, but with the speed of lightning, the women passed two strong rough wooden bars, such as I haa never seen in a cabin before, across the door, secured them in their res pective staples, and then sitting down near the dead body, commenced singing a low, monotonous song, something like a nurse’s lullaby. Her arrangements were scarcely completed when the dreaded visitors reached the door. Something had happened to tickle their fancies, for they were laughing boiste rously, and continued in noisy merriment for a few minutes before any of them thought of knocking. During this time, I watched the face of my mysterious hostess, without taking : my eyes off her for a second; though she never I interrupted her melancholy, moaning lay, yet i her eyes, fixed on the door as if they would pierce through it, her attitude of watchful at tention, and the air of coolness and prompti tude with which she had made her simple preparation for defence, satisfied me, that be my dangers what they might, treachery was hot among the number—at last one of the party knocked Tor admittance—‘Who’s there? I said my companion, in the same harsh tone with which he had first addressed me. “ Its me—its all of us,” growled a brutal voice from without. “Open the door, an’ be damn ed t’ye, an’ dont be keepin’ us in the could rain.”—“Ye can’t come in, Larry,” replied my hostess, coolly. “ An’t he dead yit ?” exclaimed the other : “ blood an turf, let us in quick, we’ve got what’ll put life in him in a hurry.”—“The breath’s lavin’ him while ye are spokin’,” answered my companion, “ an’ nothin ye have can stop id, an’ the sight o’ye will brin’ bad look ; devil resave the one o’ ye’ll see him till he’s laid out, thin yez can do no harm.”—‘fYe’ll not let us in—ye’ll not let us in, wont ye ?” shouted half-a-dozen voices; “ brake the door, boys.”—An’ then iv ye do, cried the woman in the same tone, springing to her feet, and snatching a blun derbuss from under the bed, “ye’ll go out stiffer than ye come in; for, by the cross, I’ll blow the head off the first o’ yc that stirs a fut in here this blessed night.” She passed the door w itli the cool, fierce look of one deter mined to execute her threat. “Boys” said she, when close to the door; “what does yez want ? is it proper or dacent for yez to be wantin’ to come into the place where the corpse is, the minute the breath’s out of it ? it id be fitter for ye to go and sind Biddy Ou laghan to me to help an’ lay it out, nor to come riothig this way afore the wake.”— “Throth, an’ that’s thrue for ye,” replied ano ther and a graver voice; “ an’ divil a one o’ the best of ye, boys, I’ll let stir in to-night till the women lays him out, and makes him da cent an’fit to be seen—so go along an’sind Biddy;” and instantly, though not without some gruff murmurs, the siege wes broken up, and the party retired. Wbcn I thought they wore out of ear-shot I was about to speak, but the instant 1 arti culated a sound, iny companion laid her hand on my mouth, and with a fierce gesture mo tioned me to be silent. Scarcely had he done so, when a low whisper of “ Molly—Molly 4 ” close to the door, told me that her caution was not without reason. “Well, w'hat is if!’ replied she, sinking her own voice to that of the whispc rcr. “The boys are gone on to Bid dy’s, as 1 bid thiin, an’ I stopped to ax ye iv ye w ould’nt like a dhrop of whiskey to com fort ye in the could an’ the grief, ye poor crathur”—“An’ thcres’ nobody wid ye, an’ ye wont want to cross the door, Micky ?” inquir ed my hostess. “The never a sowl wid me, an’ I would’nt go in if yc axed me till the wake” replied he, in an offended tone, as if hurt at his politeness being called in question. While unbarring the door with one hand,with the other she drew me behind it, so as to put ine completely out of view, and hold it ajar, took from the hand of her condoling visitor a bottle. “ Did he go asy?” said he, in a voice intended to be very sympathetic, but which resembled the subdued grow ling of a mastiff over a bone. “lie was in grate pain, ravin’ an’ dharnmin’ about a bloody bill-hook last night—he died as hard ns ever man died,” said, and struggled the-wav you’ll struggle on the gallows, Micky; bud away wid ye, and send Biddy down afore he gets stiff,” and w ith out further ceremony, she shut the door. From a dark nook she produced two gob lets and a pitcher of water, and knocking off the neck of the bottle she had received from her last visiter, invited me by her example to taste its contents; and let lions vivants say what they please about Clos de Vougcrt, La Fitto or Sillcry, there never was a draught so much to mv mind after the fatigue, the del uge, and the excitation of that nigiit, as the copious libation of whiskey and wkter with which I forthwith refreshed my inward ' an. “Ye want to know whom I am, and where ye are,” said my singular hostess, when 1 had finished my draught; “I sec it in ye’re eye, an’ so ye shall, ye’re in the house ova man that might have been a daccnt laborer, and the father ova lively, healthy family, and the Jiiis band of an honest wife,” and here her voice faltered for an instant, “but he had a bad dlirop in his heart that wouldn’t let him conic to good. I listened to him, an’ he made mo a fool an’ a disgrace to my people; an he listened to the devil, an’ spilt his masther’s blood for the lucre ov gain; but (he judgment's come at last. 1 was a dacent, innocent girl, when first I met him that’s there —look at me now, an’ see what he’s made me —but that’s not what l want to talk about. It is now cl : even years, last Michadmas, sence him an’ I were livin’ in the sajvice cv Air. Daly, a far mer, and a kind mr.sthcr he was; an’ tiiere come a girl out of the County Mat he into the same sarvice, an’ she wasn’t in it two days, when she come in the morning in a thrimble ov fright to Miss Daly, and tould her that she dhramed that the masther an’ misthress were murthcred in bed by. a man that she knew the face ov well, and that the dhramc was too sharp a dhramc, not to come for a warning. Miss Daly was walkin’ out ov her room an’ goin’ on to the kitchen all the time, never mindin’ a word the girl was sayin’, for she had a bould heart an’ didn’t mind dhrames no more nor if she was a Jew. In the kitchen were the labourin’ men all at breakfast, an’ him,” pointing to the corpse, “along wid the rest; an’ as the girl passed through after Miss Daly, the moment she saw him she screeched and ran out as fast as a hare from the dogs; an’ when Miss Daley asked her what ailed her to make her behave that way, she tould her, that the inurtherer she saw in her dhramc was sittiu’ in the kitchen, an’ iv he wasn’t turned off that instant minute she’d lave the sarvice that very day. An angry girl Miss Daly was to hear her talk in that way, an’ tould her to go as fast as she liked, and go she did. Three nights afther that the dhramc came thrue, and the masther and misthress were killed in their bed—Oh! the kind mis thress that never closed her eyes on her pil low with an’ angry thought agin mortal brea thin’. Ain I belyin’ yeF’ said she, stepping fiercely up to the corpse. “Didn’t I curse ye on my bended knees, when ye wakened me up wid your bloody hands to tell me what yc had done? An’ isn’t the curse come thrue? Where’s my child, my beautiful boy, that sickened from lhat very hour, as if he was sthruck wid an evil aye? Where’s my ould father, that died ova broken heart wid the shame ye brought upon me? and where, oh where is the innocent thoughts that used to keep me singin’ lor joy the live-long day, an’ I listenin’ to the birds in the threes, an’ look in’ at the deer in the park, an’ gatherin’ the flowers on the hill, an’ thinkin’ nothin’ that wasn’t good an’ happy? An’ where is that quiet sleep that never came near me from the day I knew ye, an’ never will ’till I’rn laid in my grave? an’ the sooner that blessed hour comes the betther, for there I’ll be quiet at last. Ye’ve seen an awful sight, Sir, an’ ye’ve heard an awful story, an’ iv it’s a warn in’ to ye, gentleman as ye are, that bad com pany lades to ruin, I’m glad ye come: any how it was kindness made ye stay, an’ God ’ill bless ye for it. There’s the day breakin’, an’ the wimin’ ’ill be coinin’ here to lay him out wid the first light, an’ the sooner ye go, the better for both.” * "inQ 40 £>*<•' —— DISAPPOINTED LOVE. To a man the disappointment of love may occasion sortie bitter pangs—it may wound some feelings ef tenderness, and blast or con summate some prospect of felicity—but he is an active being, and can dissipate his discon solate thoughts in the vortex of varied occu potions. He can plunge into the tide of Ely* sian pleasure, or if the scene of disappoint ment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his abode at will; and taking, as it were, the wings of the morning, fly to the re motest parts of this sublunary sphere, and there rest again in felicity. But Woman’s is, comparatively, a secluded and meditative life. She is the companion of her own thoughts and feelings, and if they are turned to min isters of sorre w, where shall the bereaved and oppressed heart look for consolation? Her lot is to be wooed and won—and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress which has been captured, ransacked, and abandoned. She exists only to brood over the ruins of disappointed hope and crushed affections. THE STARS. Those young looking rascals that peep from out the blue above us—who have winked down upon cur forests and follies for so ma ny centuries—who nightly come out from their homes to light the sable countenance of old night, who & what are ye? Are ye shining worlds, and have yc bright eyes and broken hearts in your realms, such as shine and break here? Move ye on your immeasurable path thoughtless of earth and its graves—its great ness and its pefishabilty ? Whence come ye and w hither do ye go ? Reck ye of time, or or do yc move amidst the endless space, and interminable paths of eternity ? I see your bright faces reflected in the lake—your silver hue resting on the leaves of the forest—but who and What arc ? And what is the inquirer? The dust will cover him,but you will shine on? Ambition disappointed—Love ruined—the grey of age on him—still ye shine, and gild the head-stone of his grave, when he that once lived, shall be forgotten. The monarch and his sceptre shall crumble—the oak grow old and fall—empires wax and wane—but still ye w ill shine on unruffled, serene, glorious, bcau iiful as now. Not one ray will (Ice from your glittering brows, though it w ill fall on other eyes, on unborn millions—on other forests and lands now unknown to thoscq who, in the mockery of science, trace out your paths through infinity of heaven. Bright stars, look not in the mockery upon me ! but gaze on hu man genius, and read to both the lesson of human frailty. —****+€ ® ©♦*<• *"- It is the practice, in many Post Ofllec?, to allow the Newspapers to be opened and read by by-standers. An honest yeoman, in a re mote town, on calling for his newspaper, which was the only one taken in his neigh borhood, found that it had been opened and read ; throwing it back to the Post-master, he indignantly exclaimed, “I’ll be darned to darnation if I’ll have a paper, after all the news has been read out of it. Boston raUaitivm. VI omcn'ts Curiosity —This trait which the most curious men say is peculiar to women, does sometimes subserve more useful purpo ses than the accumulation of subject for scan dal and gratuitous distribution at tea parties for it appears that it is almost if not entirely’ owing to its strong developement inthephr; - ncologic.il structure of Mrs. Bangs, that the Bank Robber was detected, and ten thousand dollars secured to her husband. Such a wife should have all her inquiries promptly an swered ; and though a man were a blue Beai.l no chamber should be too sacred for her in quisition. It seems that Mrs. Bangs smelt the rogue Smith on his first entry into her house, at the corner of Elm and Bromc streets. He had a suspicious way of half closing the window of his room, which gave the poor dear w oman so much trouble that it almost threw her into hysterics. Indeed her maladie arose to such a pitch from his desiring to be alone, that in a moment of extreme and irrepressible curiosity, she went bolt up to the’mans door, and asked him if he did not want a “pitcher of water ! ’ But one is “ naturally curious to know,you know,” as Paul Pry says. Besides there was something so “ very m > eri u ’ in his opening one half of the shutter and keep ing the other closed, that she thought she would “just drop in,” not intending to intrude. It was a sad visit for poor Smith, for no sooner did Mr. Bangs get a “ notion of it, than it was “ bang up” with. He incontinent called up on “Old Hays”—when you may be sure the proverb that “it is too late to repent when a a certain gentleman is come,” was an applica ble to him as any other sinner. We hope some of our playwrights 'will dramatize this plot, and call it Curiosity Rewarded,of the de plorable consequences of a man closing only one of his window shutters, and eating his din ner in bis own room.” The dramatis persona; would figure well on the stage. — Standard. Gr it was Bishop Hone’s opinion that there is no better moralist than a newspaper. He bays: “The follies, vices and consequent miseries of multitudes displayed n a newspaper, are so many admonitions and warnings, so many bea cons, continually burning to turn others from the rocks on which they have been shipwreck ed. What more powerful dissuasive from suspicion, jealously and anger, than the story of one friend murdered by another in a duel 1 What, caution likely to be more effectual a gainst gambling and profligacy, than the mournful relation of an execution or the fate of ot a despairing suicide ? What fine lecture on the necessity of economy, than an auction of estates, houses and furniture, at Skinner’s or Christie’s ? “Talk they of mortals ? There is no need of Hutchinson, Smith, or Paley ; Only take a newspaper and consider it will ihstruct thee ; plcniuset mcliues Ckrysippo ct Cran tore." MAGIC TABLET FOR FIYEiSG TIIU AGK 07 ATTY PKRSOX. I H 111 IV V VI VH ”1 2 4 8 16 22 CT ~ a 3 5 9 17 33 65 5 6 6 10 18 34 66 7 7 7 11 19 35 67 D 10 12 12 20 36 68 U 11 13 13 21 37 69 13 14 14 14 22 38 70 15 15 13 15 23 39 71 17 18 20 24 24 40 72 19 19 21 25 25 41 73 21 22 22 26 20 42 74 23 23 23 27 27 43 75 25 26 28 28 28 44 76 27 27 29 29 29 45 77 29 30 30 30 30 46 78 31 31 31 31 31 <47 79 33 34 36 40 48 48 80 35 35 37 41 49 49 81 37 38 38 42 50 50 62 39 39 39 43 51 51 83 41 42 44 44 52 52 84 43 43 45 45 53 53 85 45 46 4G 46 54 54 8G 47 47 47 47 55 55 87 49 50 52 56 GO 56 88 51 5 1 53 57 57 5 7 89 53 54 54 58 58 58 00 55 55 59 59 59 59 91 57 58 00 60 60 60 92 69 59 61 61 61 61 93 61 62 62 62 62 62 94 63 63 63 63 63 53 96 65 66 68 72 80 90 96 67 67 69 73 81 97 97 69 70 70 74 82 98 98 71 71 71 75 83 99 99 73 74 76 76 81 100 100 75 75 77 77 85 101 101 77 78 78 78 86 102 102 79 79 79 79 67 103 109 81 82 84 88 88 104 104 83 83 85 89 89 105 105 85 86 86 90 SO 106 106 87 87 87 91 91 107 107 89 90 92 92 92 108 108 91 91 93 93 93 109 109 93 94 94 94 94 110 110 95 05 95 95 90 111 111 97 98 100 104 112 112 112 99 99 101 105 113 113 113 101 102 102 106 114 114 114 103 103 103 407 115 115 115 105 106 108 108 116 116 116 107 107 109 109 117 117 117 109 110 110 110 118 118 P 8 111 111 111 111 110 119 119 113 114 110 120 120 120 120 115 115 117 121 121 121 121 117 118 118 122 122 122 122 110 119 119 123 123 123 123 121 122 124 124 124 124 124 123 123 125 125 125 125 125 • 125 126 126 126 126 126 12G . 127 127 127 127 127 127 127 “I 11 111 IV V Vi VTI Rule —Let any person tell in which col umn or columns he finds his age—-add togeth thc first numbers of those columns, and thtU sum is tlie person’s.age. Suppose for example, that a person sny? l‘ c sees liissge in tli c first, second and fifth col umn, then the addition of one, txo and sixteen. (the first numbers of said columns,), gives for the person’s age. The above combination was originally made by a Quaker gentleman in Pennsylva nia, about fiftci n years ago; but as it only extended to No. 63, we have carried it twice the extent, so as to answer for any pH as well a? young people’s age..