from the chosen of my heart gave new impulse to all the best susceptibilities of my nature. This was the holiday of my moral existence. "On my return, I found her on a visit to her sister, at whose house, a month or two after, we were married.. My uncle was very desirous that we should become members of his family. We could make a part of the establishment, without feeling that we burdened it. Here, then, we lived in the most retired manner, and had ample opportunity to ascertain our mutual re sources. "My wife had been carefully trained by a most judicious and enlightened mother; both her intellectual and moral nature had been richly cultivated; and in the school of adversity her character had acquired a stability and maturity, which were very uncommon for her years. She had a lofty sense of duty, an energy of purpose, and at the same time a modest estimation of herself, which form the happiest combination in the female character. She had, too, a most enlightened piety, the observation of which tended to confirm the lately-acquired steadfastness of my faithand she loved me in the characteristic manner of her sex-that is, with entire devotion. "We passed nearly two years in unvarying happiness. We were occupied with our own improvement, and interested in promoting the happiness of those with whom we were inmates; nor was the welfare of the peasantry in our neighborhood indifferent to us; and I flatter myself their condition was essentially and permanently improved, by the knowledge and religious instruction, disseminated, by our means, among them, and particularly among their children. After "The birth of our daughter, at the close of the second year of marriage, awakened a new set of feelings, and opened a new sphere of duty. Our cup of happiness, which before was full, seemed to overflow: but alas! it was not long before it became infused with bitter drops. My wife's health visibly declined, and we became excessively anxious on her account. waiting, for some months, the effect of time, and of the various remedies which skill could suggest and tenderness apply, I wished very much to try the effect of a voyage-and was led by this circumstance to turn my eyes to my own country again. I felt an irresistible longing to tread its soil once more-to embrace my much-loved sister-and to claim for my wife and child those generous sympathies of her nature, which had constituted the pride and happiness of my early life. She had been constantly in the habit of corresponding with me, and I had never lost for a moment the memory of her love. My poor father, too! I hoped that I might do something for him. His marriage had proved, as I apprehended, most unfortunate; his gay young wife had persuaded him to exchange his country residence for a city life, and our beloved home was sold into the hands of strangers. "My uncle did not oppose my plan. Something must indeed be done for our dear Louisa,' he said, 'and its natural you should wish to be in your own country, and among your own friends again. Your father, too, has a claim upon you, which far supersedes mine. I have always regretted that I did not go to America before I became so firmly established here, and think it the best place on earth for a young man to establish himself. I will not, then, be so selfish as to detain you here. I am old, and have not long to sojourn on earth, and my good sister and I will, with God's permission, finish our journey together.' "I was deeply affected by my uncle's magnanimity and kindness on this occasion, and assured him that I would hold myself in readiness to return to him, should anything occur to make him particularly desire it. "My wife had no strong tie to England, save that which one always feels to the soil in which are the graves of those one loves. In consequence of her lonely and isolated condition, at the time our acquaintance commenced, she clung to me, not only as the heart clings to its dearest possessions, but as it fastens itself to one only hope or treasure; and she was ready to say,Thy people shall be my people. She participated too, in my desire that she should see my sister, and felt that her society would be a great addition to our happiness. "It was late in the fall, before all things were ready for our departure. Our voyage was long, and attended with some untoward circumstances, which affected sensibly the feeble frame of my wife. When we arrived in America, the first tidings we heard was that my sister, in consequence of her husband's ill health, had gone to pass the winter in the South of France. I will here add, that she has remained on the continent with him ever since. I have received recent intelligence of her husband's death, and of her intention to come and live with me. Her faithful bosom will be as a haven of rest to a weary mariner. "This was a great disappointment-a shock to both of us; nor had the wan and altered aspect of my father, whom I saw a few days after, any tendency to cheer the gloom which it occasioned. I now felt that I was a stranger, homeless and almost friendless, in my native land. I signified to my father my wish to procure for the winter a comfortable residence in some retired country village. He had seen our present resi dence advertised. I first hired, then purchased it, and have never left it since. My sister left no family behind, and my father, I knew, preferred seeing me anywhere else rather than in his own house. During the dreary winter that ensued, our child was our only solace and amusement. With an aching heart, I watched the hectic hue on my wife's cheek, like the unnatural red which autumn plants upon the falling leaf,' growing brighter and deeper, and her parched lips betokening the withering away of the vital principle. She lingered through the Spring, and I hoped that in the month of June I should travel with her, and that her drooping nature might at least be revived a little by the freshness of the season-but even this was denied me. "She expired the latter part of July. She was able, until just before her death, to take short rides, and to walk a little about Jur own precincts. It is a privilege,' she would say, 'to have lived so far through this beautiful season-to see Nature dress for you so sweet a home. My grave will be near you, and you will visit it, Henry, and you will take our child there, when she is old enough, and teach her whose it is-and then you will point to Heaven, that her thoughts and hopes may soar thither.' "When she uttered sentiments like these, there was a holy calmness and authority in her manner, which suppressed the agitations of my nature. It was like the voice which said to the tumultuous waves, 'Peace, be still!" and hushed them into silence. She was remarkably cheerful through all her sickness : the heavenly tranquillity of her mind was never disturbed, except occasionally, when her lip would quiver, and a tear from her eye, as some touching display of loveliness in her child awakened the strong desire to live and watch her mind's development' some circumstance occurred to make her mind dwell with inusual tenacity upon the idea of leaving it motherless. It was her constant endeavor, however, not to indulge such reflectons. 'Jesus Christ took little children into his arms and blessed nem,' she would say, 'and that blessing rests on them still.' Their angels do always stand before the face of my Father wo is in Heaven.' "She was constantly speaking of her mercies. When the season of flowers came, some little children of the nemborhood, who, in the few months that we had lived near them ad already experienced her beneficence, and learned to loveand almost venerate her, constantly brought her their little offengs, and one day when a handful of roses had been thrown up. her bed, she smiled and said significantly, 'My bed is strewe with roses.' "Even in her sleep, she not unfrequently inated the constant state of her mind, by singing in her form sweet, musical voice, which now seemed only lent her for the moment, words and notes of praise-and when she finally slept the sleep of death, it was as when a child falls asleep in the lap of its parent. "SHE is gone!-but her presence dwells with me, and nothing can destroy the faith I feel, that I shall yet see her, eye to eye and face to face. I thank my God for having given me one of the loveliest of his creatures, to be so long the companion of my pilgrimage. If I had every possession on earth, nothing but my child would yield me such a revenue of happiness, as I constantly derive from the treasures of my memory." A SOUL'S WANDERINGS. My soul goes forth alone, to tread once more A quiet valley singing, so she glides, To the faint music of her own grave song, Through scenes where many a tranquil pleasure hides. She casts away the chains of later years, The worldly lore that time, alas! must bring In our despite; she flings aside all fears, As the lark shakes the rain-drops from his wing. Back to the shadowy land of childhood now Visions of rapture from the earth below, And floods of gladness greet her from the skies. She is a child again! For her the wind, The sun, the clouds, the myriad stars, are things A hidden music in each sound that brings She is a child again! The sycamore Waves its green boughs around her; far away, Their breath upon the wind, and from their grey As if to mock the winter. that is passed; the bee The voice of birds flows down from every tree My soul moves onward from that dreamy land, Yet bearing thence such wealth as shall not fail To cheer her after hours. I see her stand To gaze once more. Oh, Life, how dim and pale Thy later glories seem to that one glance Of childhood, when at last we feel that ne'er, Through all the future brings of change and chance, We can again be all we have been there! GO FORTH into the fields, Ye dwellers in the city's troubled mart! Leave ye the feverish strife, The jostling, eager, self-devoted throng;- Hark! from each fresh-clad bough, Or blissful soaring in the golden air, The silvery-gleaming rills Lure, with soft murmurs, from the grassy lea, And the young wanton breeze, With breath all odorous from her blosomy chase, Go-breathe the air of heaven, Where violets meekly smile upon your way; Seek ye the solemn wood, Whose giant trunks a verdant roof uprear, Stand by the tranquil lake, Sleeping 'mid rocky banks abrupt and high, |