a lovely girl after all, and when withdrawn from the influence of her mother, will make a charming woman and an excellent wife."

Before the carriage stopped at the residence of Mrs. Marsden, Cheston håd made Albina offer of his heart and hand, a d the oder was not refused.

Mrs. Marsden was scarcely surprised at the earliness of Albina's return from the party, for she had a secret misgiving that all was not right, that the suppression of the note would not eventuate well, and she bitterly regretted having done it. When her daughter related to her the story of the evening, Mrs. Marsden was overwhelmed with compunction, and though Cheston was present, she could not refrain from acknowledging at once her culpability, for it certainly deserved no softer nama. Cheston and Albina were shocked at this disclosure, bot in compassion to Mrs. Marsden, they forbore to add to her distress by a single comment. Cheston shortly after took his teave, saying to Albina as he departed - 'I hope you are done for ever with Mirs. Washington Potts."

Next morning. Cheston seriously but kindly expostulated with Albina and her mother on the folly and absurdity of sacrificing their comfort, their time, their money, and indeed their self-respect to the paltry distinction of being capriciously noticed by a few vain silly heartless people, inferior to themselves in every thing but in wealth, and in a slight tincture of the soi-disant fashion; and who, atter all, only took them on or threw them off as it suited their own convenience.

"What you say is very true, Bromley:" replied Mrs. Marsden. "I begin to view these things in their proper light, and as Albina remarks, we ought to profit by this last lesson. To tell the exact trath, I have heard since I came to town that Mrs. Washington Potts is, after all, by no means in the first circle, and it is whispered that she and ber, husband are both of very low origin."

"No matter for her circle or her origin," said Cheston, "in our country the outy acknowledged distinction should be that which is denoted by superiority of mind and man

From the Saturday Evening Post.

THE HEBREW MOTHER. Addressed to my esteemed friend, Mrs. D. Paine, Athens, Pa.

Again she pressed her trembling lips upon
The cheek of her pale babe, and strove to hush
Its feeble wailings with her mournful voice;
Murmuring, in low, soft tones, the holy psalms,
Which she had loved so weli in happier davs-
Days that had left but their sweet memory,
To soothe her now. The noonday sun came down
With its accustomed brightness, through the leaves
Of the tall pahlın, and lingered on the brow
Of that fair dying child, as if to call

His pure young spirit from its darkened home;
Aud soft rich odours from the vales below,
Came up, with their delicious breath to cool
His parched and fevered lips.

What brought her there?

That young and lovely Hebrew, so aside
From the glad flowery paths of those whose forms
Were all too delicate to move in bowers,
Less lovely than Engeddi's. Sure it was not
That the world's treasure, (that which buyeth friends.
And meteth out the giddy cup of bliss,

To those who revel 'mid the dross of earth,)
The burnished plate of Ophir had departed,
Leaving the wanderer cursed with poverty?
Ah, no; for her dark hair gleamed brightly forth.
With precious stones and radiant pearls and gems,
Bright sparkling gems, of heaven's all varying hues,
And her white arms were girt about with bands,
Dazzling in their deep in wrought workmanship,
And silvery tassels decked her rich dark robe
After the gorgeous manner of her tribe.

What brought her there?

Alone, amid the hills of dark Judea,
With her young precious charge, and none to cheer
Her fainting spirits with affection's tone,
No hand to raise the famished sufferer from
Her wearied arms, or cool his raging thirst,
With the pure drops which she could never reach.
Where were the gay, the festive groups, in which
That fair-haired beauty moved, of late a star
Of the first magnitude, and he to whom

Her first pure love, her heart's deep troth was given,
The werkted of her soul, where, where was he?
Had he too left her in that trying hour,

To watch with curding cheek the failing breath
Of her fair first born son; to see him droop
And fade away, like a young spring flower,
Lacking nowishment, alone to close

His lifeless eyes, when death indeed should come.
And then in her deep hopelessness to bow
Her soul to its dark destiny and die?

A sound is heard,

A sad, low, mournful sound, and the dull wind
Is burdened with the rush of dying tones;

The long, shrill clash of sword with glittering sword.
Of sabre meeting sabre, the wild charge
Of raging chariots and the lengthened shout
Of fierce encounter; though so far away,
Break in discordant murmurs on the ear
Of Israel's pale daughter, and she turns
Her tearful eyes towards the red gleaming west,

Where still is seen, though wrapt in flame and smoke,
The far famed temple of the living God,
Standing unmoved amid the general crash
Of falling towers, as if the spirit, which
Once deigned to dwell between the golden wings
Of the fair cherubims, yet lingered there.
To frown defiance on the unhallowed crew,
Whose hands had dared profane its holy shrine.
A smile is on the gazer's quivering lip,
And her dark eye flashes unwonted fire,
As it's quick vision hails the holy scite
Of that stern edifice, her nation's boast;
Forgotten now are the protracted i.ls
Which she hath suffered since her exile lone,
Hunger and thirst and cold, and deep fatigue,
And those dread scenes of blood and cruelty,
Wherewith man proves the love his boson bears
To those whom God hath formed of dust the same.
Forgotten now the dark terrific hour,
When the shrill trumpet from the walls first gave
The signal of invasion, and there came,
Like an o'erwhelming deluge, hosts of men
In warlike guise, to raze the sacred gates
Of great Jerusalem. Forgotten is.
Her beauteous home, in smouldering ruins laid,
Her murdered friends, decaying 'neath the piles
Of burning rubbish. Her young husband too,
His last fond look, his last impressive words
All, all have faded from her memory,
Forgot, absorbed in one all-kindling thought,
The thought of that high temple of the skies,
Backward she flings her rich unbraided locks,
And raising aloft her weak and trembling hands,
The spirit of the chosen baud of God

Breaks forth from her deep soul, in words like these:

"Away ye men of Rome,

Think ye to trample down

The Temple, which our father's reared,
The mighty of renown?

Away, for lightnings dwell

Within its sacred vail,

Aye, and a voice, whose tones would make
Hearts of the stoutest quail.

Desist, fierce men of war,
Nor dare, one moment dare
Profane with heathen touch that shrine,

For holy things are there.

Ah, ye may bathe your hands
In choicest Hebrew blood,
And desolate with fire the spot
Where our fair dwellings stood.

And ye may fing your chain
Arouad our brave and free,

And lead our weeping daughters forth
To dread captivity.

But never may ye bring

To earth, our heavenward tower, Jehovah is its sentinel,

Rash men, ye lack the power. Hush, hush my dying one,

For I would gaze once more Upon that glorious dome, ere yet My pilg image is d'ur.

How beautiful it stands,

Like a proud spirit throwing
A lofty radiance o'er the field,

With shields and targets glowing.

Most beautiful! oh, would

My child, that thy dim eyes
Might see how deeply grand looks down,
That pillar of the skies.

Firm as the moveless hills
My nation's hope, art thou,
Home of our holy statutes, none
Have power to harm thee now."

Exhausted drooped the wanderer's weary head,
Though her wan vision clong tenacious still
To it's great idol, thinking some miracle
Would work as formerly, deliverance sure.
Aye, and it did, but darkened sounds alone
Revealed what that deliverance was. She saw,
The Hebrow saw her last hope fade. She saw
The temple totter, fall, and heard the skriek
Of dying thousands, crushed beneath the weight
Of its red glowing timbers. Then she thought
On Him who prophesied that, not one stone
Should lie unturned in that polluted tower.
She thought on Him the hated Nazarine.
And the truth flashed on her benighted mind,
That He indeed had been the promised Shiloh,
Her nation's King, and they had murdered him.

Oh, it was agony; and in despair

She sank beside her lifeless child and gave
Her spirit to its Maker."

NATURE.

39

JULIET.

The contemplation of the works of nature affords some of the noblest, purest pleasures of the human mind. Gazed upon as the workmanship of a great, and wise, and good Being, who can consider them without feelings of mingled admiration and awe. Even in the inferior parts of creation, among the little things of our own earth, how much do we find to call forth wonder ald inspire delight. Animate and inanimate nature is full of beauty and astonishing displays of superior wisdom. How surprising the order and regularity of the crystal. So exact, that amidst a million of the same species, no difference in angle and form can be detected. How beautiful the little vernal flower! Its leaves seem touched by the pencil of an angel.

But let us rise still higher and take a wider survey. Let us gain some commanding eminence and look off upon hill and dale, and field, and forest, and stream. What a boundless variety, and yet all beautiful! Whose eyes are so dullwhose soul so insensible that he cannot gaze and admire with almost insatiable delight? Whose heart is not enlarged, whose feelings are not refined, whose pleasures are not multiplied, by mingling with, and contemplating the beauties of creation. It is here we seem to commune with ourselves and with our Creator in his works. It is here that is placed the first impress of our Maker's character. The mysteries of nature we should study, the loveliness of nature we should admire, as the work of the Almighty. And how easy thus would become our pathway

40

Oh, how canst thou renounce the boundless store,
Of charms, which nature to her votary yields?
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves and garniture of fields,
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,

And all the echoes of the song of even,
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,
*And all the grand magnificence of heaven;

Oh how canst thou renounce and hope to be forgiven?

Who does not retire from the contemplation of nature with feelings of a tender relation to his Father in heaven? He can say "in wisdom hast thou made them all." But when he turns to the region of animal life, he finds still more to gratify and delight, than in more inanimate matter. Here is superior wisdom and greater goodness. Look at the diminutive insect that crosses your path. Learn his mode of existence, his habits of life; the nice adaptation of his size and form, to all the circumstances of his being, to all the necessities and means of individual happiness.Examine the little fly that buzzes about in all the sportiveness of youth, and all the bliss of conscious being and overflowing joy. Admire his gossamer wing, his fixed but bright and animated eye. The sun sheds upon him as cheering a ray, and the summer air breathes as mildly around han, as the boasted Lord of creation. How true is the declaration of the Psalmist, "The Lord is unto all and his tender mercies are over all his works."

But when we have travelled over our little

earth, and witnessed all it possesses of the beautiful and the sublime, when we have listened to the roar of the ocean, and the song of birds, when we have looked upon the forest's gorgeousness and the flowret's beauty, when we have seen

the limpid and purling rill, and the majestic river, when we have turned our eye upon the vine-clad hills and towering mountains; when we have seen and heard all this, we have but entered the vestibule of the great temple of nature.

There are other worlds around us to which probably our earth, with all its grandeur, is but as dust in the balance. The eye wanders off enraptured with its discoveries amidst the bright orbs of heaven. Infinity of space is before it.

Unnumbered spheres are above and below, and

around us. And when the eve is tired of

gazing,

and when its spirit flying vision has reached its utmost goal, it calls to its aid the benefits of scientific discovery, and stretches out into still more distant space, and there enjoys the new pleasure of seeing other worlds and beholding

other wonders.

A virtuous mind in a fair body, is indeed a fine picture in a good light, and therefore it is no wonder that it makes the beautiful sex all over charms.-Addison.

Small causes are sufficient to make a man uneasy, when great ones are not in the way; for want of a block he will stumble at a straw.Swift.

AT WEST POINT.

ZOSCIUSZKO

σ

This monument, designed by Mr. John H. В. Latrobe, of Baltimore, is situated in Kosciusko's garden, a beautiful retreat, immediately on the bank of the Hudson river, and surrounded on all sides by a wild and romantic scenery. The approach to this garden is by a small ravine which winds its way through an opening in the rock that seems to have been formed at a moment when nature was shaken by the agitation of some terrible convulsion. The enormous ledge of rock is cleft asunder, and the parts appear to have retired from each other, as if by the action of some repulsive force, until ceasing to act, it left them in their present position, and so situated, as to constitute a perpendicular wall of solid granite on each side of the ravine. Through this

descended by

a flight of granite, which

opening, the ravine is large imassive steps of mounted were made by Kosciusko himself, and by the side of which, a crystal streamlet rolls gently down the declivity, passes through one side of the garden, and falling in a small but beautiful cascade over the edge of the precipice, it mingles its waters with those of the Hudson, which wash in their passage, the base of the rock.From the foot of the steps, the garden reaches out in a fine plateau, about two hundred feet above the surface of the water, commanding a full and delightful view of the river and opposite shore. It was to this place, that the brave and gallant soldier, whose name it bears, used frequently to retire from the busy tumult of the camp, that he might peruse without interruption, the profound and difficult studies of his pro

and exalted spirit which animated him through life, he would sigh over the miseries of his own unhappy country, and deplore the destiny that had enslaved her.

Here are still to be seen some remains of the shrubbery which he planted and cultivated with his own hands; and the natural seat which he was wont to occupy, is still pointed out to the passing stranger; and it is there that the corps of cadets have testified their admiration for his valour, and their respects for his virtues.

Written for the Casket.

ODE TO THE LAKE OF THE WOODS.
All hail to thy waters, lone Lake of the Woods,
In the gloom and the grandeur of deep solitudes;
How long undisturbed have thy waters been there,
Thou lake of a thousand bright isles blooming fair?
Thou source of a hundred bright streamlets and lakes,
That leap to the ocean, and solitude breaks;
How long have been blooming thy green sunny isles,
And who have been witnesses of all thy smiles?

Has time been thy talisman, marking thy years,
by the annual shedding of rivers of tears,
That flow'd from the cold rocky mountains afar,

From her snow-crested summits, and emptying there?

Hath the wild flower bloom'd on thy inargin of green,
And shed its sweet honors, and blush'd there unseen,
And wasted its sweetness on the cold desert air,
For thousands of years, all blooming thus fair?

Hath the wild swan, and eagle, career'd o'er thy steeps,
And fear'd not the fowler, aud fearless of deeps,
Scream'd wild to the night air, lonely and shrill,
As echo has answered from valley to hill?

Hath the red warrior guided his light canoe,
Per thy lone, silent waters, of varied hue;
And marked all thy eddies, and each curling bay,
Unbroken by ripples, that mirror-like lay?

Yes, ail these through long ages of gloom, thou hast seen,
Midst the changing of nature, unchanged thou hast been;
And time only hath marked with her annual floods,
Thy long lapse of years, dark Lake of the Woods!

Thou deep, inexhaustable, wonderous Lake;
Thou source of a hundred that ocean-ward make,
Whose dark swelling waters eternally roar,
As down the steep bed of Niagara they pour!

Thou wonder of millions-a watery chain,
That cornes from thy bosom, and flows to the main;
No barrier can stop thee,-still foaming thy floods,
Sull fed by the dark deep Lake of the Woods!

Thon divider of nations, that else had been one,
Then those dark deeds of daring had never been done;
And no blood had been shed by a brother or friend,
Which, naught but thy waters had made them contend!

M. CASSIMIR PERIER.

M. Cassimir Perier was born on the 12th October, 1777, at Grenoble. The son of a rich merchant; he at an early age embraced the career of arms, and served in the Italian campaigns of 1799 and 1800,-in the staff of the military engineers. On the death of his father, however, he quitted the army, and devoted himself wholly to commercial pursuits. In 1802, he founded a banking establishment at Paris; and subsequently established a number of manufactories of cotton spinning, and sugar refining, and also steam flour mills, all of which were eminently successful, and contributed to the forination of the immense fortune which he leaves behind him. He first became known to the public in 1816, by a pamphlet against the foreign loan system, which was equally remarkable, for a lucid clearness of argument, and a profound knowledge of finance. In 1817 he was elected one of the Deputies for the Department of the Seine, and from that time until the Revolution of 1830, continued the firm opponent of every ministerial encroachment on the rights and privileges of the people. He particularly distinguished himself by his hostility to the Villele Administration, having himself supported almost singly the whole burden of the opposition to the famous budget of M. de Villele, which he disputed item by item with a talent and perseverance worthy of entering the lists with the illustrious financier to whom he was opposed. When M. de Polignac became President of the Council, the opposition of M. Perier assumed a more violent character; he was pre-eminent among the 221 Deputies who voted the famous address which led to the fatal Ordonnances of July. When the Revolution broke out, he at once avowed himself the advocate of the popular cause, and opened his house as the place of Meeting of the Deputies who assembled to protest against the illegality of the proceedings of the Crown. Firmly, however, attached to the principles of constitutional opposition, and shrinking, therefore, from the probable effects of a revolution; he was one of the last to abandon the hope that his infatuated Sovereign would open his eyes to the gulf on the brink of which he was standing, and, by a timely revocation of the ordonnances, prevent the necessity of the extreme measure of an appeal to arms, and a consequent change of dynasty. When, however, these became inevitable, M. Perier attached himself firmly to the work of consolidating the new throne of Louis Philip, and re-assembling those elements of order and stability which the convulsions of July had scattered, but not annihilated. On the dissolution of the Ministry of M. Lafitte, M. Casimir Perier was called to the head of the Government, and immediately entered into the system of conservative policy, which he continued until the close of his career. The last time he took any important part in the debates in the Chamber of Deputies was on the 20th March; when he pronounced an eloquent defence of the conduct of Government with respect to the events of Grenoble. The last time he was pre