A Marriage Letter.

THE following letter was written twenty years ago, by a lady of great literary distinction, to her cousin of New York, on the eve of his marriage; and accompanied by a pair of Blue Mixed Stockings, knit by herself as a present.

DEAR COUSIN,

Herewith you will receive a present of a pair of woollen stockings, knit by my own hands, and, be assured, that my friendship for you is as warm as the material, active as the finger work, and generous as the donation.

But I consider this present as peculiarly appropriate on the occasion of your marriage. You will remark in the first place that there are two individuals united in one pair, who are to walk side by side, guarding against coldness, and giving comfort as long as they last. The thread of their texture is mixed, and so alas is the thread of life. In these, however, the white predominates, expressing by desire and confidence, that thus it will be with the colour of your existence. No black is used, for I believe your lives will be wholly free from the black passions of wrath and jealousy. The darkest colour here is blue, which is excellent, where we do not make it too blue. Other appropriate thoughts rise to my mind in regarding these stockings. The most indifferent subjects, when viewed by the mind in a suitable frame, may furnish instructive inferences; as saith the Poet;

"The iron dogs, the fuel and tongs,

The bellows that have leathern lungs,
The firewood, ashes, and the smoke,
Do all to righteousness provoke."

But to the subject. You will perceive the tops of these stockings, (by which I suppose courtship to be represented,) are

A, MARRIAGE LETTER.

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seamed; and by means of seaming, are drawn into a snarl: but afterward comes a time when the whole is made plain, and continues so to the end and final toeing off. By this I wish to take occasion to congratulate you that you are now through with seaming, and have come to plain reality. Again, as the whole of these comely stockings was not made at once, but by the addition of one little stitch after another, put in with skill and discretion, until the whole presents the fair, equal piece of work which you see; so life does not consist of one great action, but millions of little ones combined: and so may it be with you-no stitch dropped when duties are to be performed— no widening made when bad principles are to be reproved, or economy is to be preserved-neither seaming nor narrowing where truth and generosity are in question. Thus, every stitch made right and set in the right place-none either too large or too small, too tight or too loose: thus may you keep on your smooth and even course, making existence one fair and consistent piece-until, together having passed the heel, you come to the very toe of life, and here, in the final narrowing off and dropping the stitch of this emblematical pair of companions, and comforting associates, nothing appears but white, the token of innocence, purity, peace, and light. May you, like these Stockings, (the final stitch being dropped, and the work completed,) go together from the place where you were framed, to a happier state of existence, a present from earth to Heaven. Hoping that these stockings and admonitions may meet a cordial reception, I remain, in the true blue friendship, seemly, yet without seaming.

Yours from tip to toe.

IN silence mend what ills deform thy mind;
But all thy good impart to all thy kind.

STERLING.

Che Close of the Year.

'Tis midnight's holy hour-and silence now,

Is brooding like a gentle spirit, o'er

The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds
The bell's deep tones are swelling; tis the knell
Of the departing year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past-yet, on yon stream and wood,
With melancholy light the moonbeams rest,
Like a pale spotless shroud: the air is stirred,
As by a mourner's sigh-and on yon cloud
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand.

Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form,
And Winter with his aged locks, all breathe

In mournful cadences that comes abroad,

Like the far wind harp's wild and touching wail
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year,

Gone from the earth forever!

'Tis a time

For memory and for tears. Within the deep,
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim,
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time,
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold

And solemn finger to the beautiful

And holy visions that have passed away,

And left no shadow of their loveliness

On the dead waste of life. That sceptre lifts

The coffin-lid of hope, and Joy and Love

Are bending mournfully above the pale

Sweet forms that slumber there, scattering dead flowers

O'er what has passed to nothingness. The Year
Has gone and with it many a glorious throng

THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,
Its shadow on each heart. In its swift course
It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful,
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man-and the haughty form
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.
It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged
The bright and joyous-and the tearful wail
Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song
And reckless shouts resounded. It passed o'er
The battle-plain where sword and spear and shield,
Flashed in the light of mid-day-and the strength
Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass,
Green from the soil of carnage, waves above
The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came,
And faded like a mist at eve-

Yet e're it melted in the viewless air,

It heralded its millions to their home

In the dim land of dreams.

Remorseless Time!

Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe-what power
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt

His iron heart to pity! On, still on,

He passes, and forever. The proud bird,
The Condor of the Andes, that can soar
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave
The fury of the northern hurricane,

And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home,
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down
To rest, upon his mountain crag. But Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness:
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind.
His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep

O'er earth, like troubled visions on the breast

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THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

Of dreaming sorrow. Cities rise and sink
Like bubbles on the water-fiery Isles
Spring blazing from the ocean and go back
To their mysterious caverns. Mountains rear
To heaven their bald and blackest cliffs, and bow
Their tall heads to the plains. New Empires rise,
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nations. . . . and the very stars,
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God,
Glitter awhile in their eternal depths,
And, like the Plead, loveliest of her train,
Shoot from their glorious spheres and pass away,
To darkle in the trackless void. Yet Time-
Time the Tomb-Builder, holds his fierce career,
Dark, stern, all pityless, and pauses not,
Amid the thousand wrecks that strew his path,
To sit and muse, like other conquerors,
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought!

PRENTICE.

THE discussion of Slavery will proceed, wherever two or three are gathered together-by the fireside, on the highway, and at the public meeting. The movement against Slavery is from the Everlasting Arm. Even now it is gathering its forces, soon to be confessed everywhere. It may not yet be felt in the high places of office and power; but all who can put their ears humbly to the ground, will hear and comprehend its incessant and advancing tread.

SUMNER.