present, and at a wonderful pace is modern invention urging society along. Mind, to be felt, must be moving. Brains, without legs, are useless. It is not the calibre of the ordnance, but the impetus of the ball, that sends it crashing along the path of destiny. Of each department of every pursuit, in all occupations, is this true, whether the Senate, the Bar, the Church.

It is sad to reflect, that the upward of thought has been so utterly relinquished for its onward-sad to see that the onward of man is not necessarily his upward also. And yet, how necessary to duration is the True, a wiser than philosophy has taught; and that progress, without endurance, is vain, requires no philosophy to teach. The great practical lesson for this age yet to learn, is, that national security depends on national faith; not a subservience to dogmas and creeds, nor superstitious observance of fasts and ceremonies, but an intelligent apprehension of the inseparable relation between man and God, and of the impossibility of its violation without human disaster.

Though this lesson is to be learned not altogether from the Church, yet there should it be earliest inculcated, and there its earliest rudiments be taught. A nobler work can not be conceived-nor one in the achievement of which immortal honors can be more nobly won: not prosecuted by the feeble light of traditional faith, nor contracted to the feeble proportions of missal and ritual, but, expanding with the generous impulses of a just enthusiasm, emanating from conscious affinity with Deity, and guided by a reason equally divine. Republican France, by the introduction of Reason into her churches, became the atheistical Republic of the last century: it would be singular, indeed, were Republican America, by the exclusion of Reason from her churches, to become the atheistical Republic of this.

MADDALENA.

MOTHER! my breath grows shorter-I scarce can whisper now;
Dark shades weigh down mine eyelids-the death-damp's on my brow.
I know that I am dying: yet not for that I moan—
But I must leave thee in the world, a widow and alone.
Oh! weep not for me, mother: no sting is in the dart-
I go where there's oblivion for this poor broken heart.

'Tis hard to leave thee, mother; but oh! 'twere worse to stay,

And see thee watch me, daily, wither and pine away.

Hush! hush-you never scorned me-your breast was not defiled
With sheltering and caressing your sinful stricken child.

God left you to me, mother, when he took all beside,
To lead my erring spirit back to the Crucified.

Through thy pale lips, my mother, He spoke those words to me,
One heart on earth hath pardoned-"Neither condemn I thee."
All through the shameful daylight, all through the sleepless night,
I heard the angels whispering, I saw them clothed in white;
They stood around thee, mother, to aid thee, by God's grace,
And gazed, like loving children, upon thy gentle face.

Again I see them dimly, and seem to hear them say
That He who has forgiven, has sent for me away-
Sent his own holy angels for one so vile as I,
To clothe me in white raiment and bear me to the sky.
Shed, then, no tear, my mother, though we so early part:
I go where there is pardon for this poor broken heart.

Hark-if you meet him, mother, tell him the love I gave
Died not until this body was cold within the grave;
Tell him that I forgave him my weary, wasted life,
And prayed he might be happy with her he made his wife.
Yet tell him not: the message might roll back memory's tide
She never harmed me, mother-I would not curse his bride.

Hold me still closer to thee: all things are fading now,
Except the holy angels-I saw one kiss thy brow.
Let me, too, touch it, mother. It is not hard to die
When such as these are waiting for sinner such as I!
Joy, joy and hope, my mother: a little while we part,
To meet where sin nor sorrow can come to break the heart.

S. W. C.

THE CHRONICLES OF PERSEPOLIS;

OR, FIVE YEARS OF THE LIFE OF A GENTLEMAN-FARMER IN THE KINGDOM OF NEW-JERSEY.

BY MR. QUIGG.

CHAPTER FIRST.

HOW I WENT INTO THE COUNTRY.

SHORTLY after my admission to the bar, I committed the common imprudence of getting married.

My practice never having been large enough to support me as a bachelor, the addition of a wife was one of those providential arrangements which fit a man as Tom Callender's wig fitted his friend John Gilpin.

What would not support one was, of course, a potential California for two, and the possibilities.

As I am about to withdraw the veil from five years of my life, it may, perhaps, be proper to mention at the outset that my name is Quigg, and that I have been distinguished, from my youth, by an amiable temper, severe industry, and a profound confidence in my fellow-men. In fact, if I had ever possessed a fortune large enough to permit me to do good without serious personal inconvenience, I flatter myself I should have been a distinguished philanthropist. Indeed the Quiggs have always been more or less distinguished. They are a very old, and exceedingly respectable family.

My grandfather was a major in the militia, and my greataunt Deborah married an alderman.

I have been told, too, that one of my ancestors wrote verses. But the family is very tender upon that head, and I could never learn his name.

I believe it is not unusual for folk to commence a story at the wrong end. Most commence life at that place, and the story of a life or part of a life might naturally be expected to follow so general an example. I should have a very good apology to offer too; for in fact, from the first moment I abandoned the limits of civilization, as comfortably walled around

by the boundaries of city life, I have never been exactly certain which end was foremost.

However, I have begun at the beginning, and will endeavor to preserve in some sort the natural order of those remarkable events which I am about to relate.

My name you are already acquainted with. I have, therefore, only to inform you that, to the best of my information and belief, I am the son of my father. My parents were good and happy people; happier in nothing, however, as will be readily admitted, than in having so excellent a son as myself. This brief account of my birth, parentage, and early educa tion, ought, I think, to entitle me to the entire confidence of my readers.

By way of securing me in honest and virtuous courses, my revered parents determined that I should be bred to the law. If they could have made the law bread to me, they would have done a better thing.

The summer before I was married, I was taken with the afflicting distemper which usually results in that species of moral suicide. I fell in love: deeply, terribly-over head and ears in love.

The great distance one has to fall into that abyss, the rapidity of the descent, and the severe shock sustained, make it quite a miracle how any survive the accident. Death, however, seldom intervenes. A brain-fever is usually the worst of the

consequences.

In the summer of 184, then, I, Clarkson Quigg, Esq., attorney at law and solicitor in chancery, fell in love. It was a violent attack. The faculty gave me up, and my best friends considered my case hopeless.

Early in the month of July the object of my pious adoration went up the Hudson River to spend the summer. Of course I went with her.

A sultry summer-day; a crowded steamer; the glorious Hudson. Solitude in the crowd. Alone with the goddess of my dreams. Seductive picture!

We talked sentiment beneath the Palisades. Our souls were elevated to a heavenly communion by the grandeur of Anthony's Nose.

Ah! if Providence had only granted us, at that moment, a small boat all alone by ourselves, a faithful dog, and a German flute, together with a guitar for my divine Julia, the measure of our earthly felicity had been full. Wanting, however, those sublime accessories, we nourished our young romance of

passion with the fuel of imagination, and got as far away from reality and common-sense as the most exacting novelist could reasonably require from two people in our situation.

It was, however, the place, that old house among the trees where we sojourned all those sunny days of summer-time, which finished us; quenched the last lingering spark of worldly wis dom, and fooled us into marriage.

There were mothers, sisters, brothers, cousins there with us. But I will not linger over them. That sort of people are always in the way of lovers; always just where they are not wanted. I leave them, as I wished oftentimes they would leave me alone; since I am not engaged in recalling the sorrow of that time, but the sweet infatuation of our youthful ecstasy of love.

About four miles north of Hyde Park then, and on the banks of the Hudson, was the scene of those events which a color to all the after-purpose of our lives.

gave

Be

A wide lane led up to the house from the "Old French road." On either side the lane towering giant-like in the air, rose up some of the finest locust trees I have ever seen. fore the house especially, were five of enormous size, and so old the oldest neighbors said they were great trees in their childhood, and were probably remains of the original forest which there bordered the river.

The house itself was a long, narrow, one-story-and-a-half Dutch mansion of the olden time of New-York. Quaint and comfortable, it squatted behind its trees, and as the smoke rose up from its chimney, seemed like a comfortable old broadsterned burgher seated in his "bowerie." The eaves came down at the back of the house almost to the ground, and in front a broad piazza stretched its comfortable length.

A lovely reach of meadow-land lay behind, the house, through which a brook made its way with many strange twists and windings. This brook came down by way of a rocky hill which lay a little to the south, and formed in its descent a hundred tiny cascades. Amongst these were some very picturesque; and from the summit of the rocky elevation a single waterfall, worthy of the name, took its first leap of some twenty feet downwards to the valley. When a storm came to swell the brook, the waterfall could be heard at the house; and, indeed, at such times it made quite a grand and imposing figure, and lifted up its variable voice almost to the roar of a cat

aract.

A succession of rude steps in the rocks, partly natural,