the hand, gave it a pressure that told his Christian thankfulness; for it was not so much the offer, as the readiness and promptness with which it was made, which achieved the end. It kindled every heart in sympathy. "You're welcome to all that's over after the barn's completed," said Squire Haskins, with a smile.

"And about that lumber down to mill," added Dr. Jones, "I'm only sorry I haint any team to haul it where it will be wanted."

"Never mind about that," said Mr. Bliss; my people 'll be on hand with the cattle for that 'ere proceedur, jest as soon as the word's giv out."

"Come to my store for nails, Mr. Hall,” said the merchant.

Old gray-haired farmer Ware had had his head on his cane ever since Charles first spoke; and now, at his first pause, he lifted it up, and half shutting one eye, and squinting with the other at a corner of the mantelpiece-don't laugh, for he was one of the best men that ever lived, rough as he wasand the more intently he squinted at an object before uttering his thoughts, the more valuable the thoughts were sure to be-he lifted up his head, I say, with his richest squint, and said in his slow unvarnished manner:

My farm, you know, butts on Snake river; and right on the side as you go down to the bridge the land makes off jest as level as can be conceived on, for a consider'ble distance. I guess, the fact is, I know sartin, there's risin an acre in all on't from the bridge down along. Now you're welcome to that 'ere. It'll be snug, and enough on't for a little garding, leavin' out what's took for the house to set on. If that don't suit ye, say where you'd rather have an acre or so -but I'm minded that's a slick place."

It was just the place for Mary. This flat spot was one of the tables of land I have described above; ard the scenery around was glorious-a continual feast for her ardent imagination. Let me describe it to you. The stream, not very large in its own proper dimensions, came foaming and dash. ing in tiny cataracts, through a deep ravine, to mingle its waters with the Connecticut. Across it, about a quarter of a mile from its mouth, a bridge had been thrown for the high road. Its timbers rested on everlasting foundations-the solid rocks on either shore,-between which, thirty feet below the bridge, the river dashed along. At the same time, the bridge itself was low in the ravine; for there was a steep descent on either side to reach its level. Above, a mill had been built, whose huge over-shot water-wheel, turning about down in the very depths of the ravine, dripping ever with spray, added to the romance of nature; while the water played over its dam in a clear unbroken sheet, lulling the senses with its monotonous

hum. Below, on one side, birches, hemlocks, and stunted pines, shrouded the steep bank from the top to the very edge of the stream; and on the other, just midway, was the table of land, proposed to be given by Farmer Ware. Don't you agree with me, reader, that it was just the spot for Mary?

Before many months, a pretty dwelling was erected, and Mrs. Kennedy and Mary installed in possession. It was two stories in height, because a better view could be obtained by a little more elevation; and Charles was ever on the watch for the comfort of the being he loved. On the lower floor were two rooms, one for kitchen and parlour in common-for under Mary's housewifery, so far as neatness and arrangement were concerned, her kitchen always looked like a parlour-the other for a school-room-for she was to have twenty little scholars all the year round, at twelve aud a half cents a week each-and that, mind you, in a country village, so far inland, was quite an income for her. Above were two bed-rooms; and Mary's, rest assured, was on the westerly side of the house, looking up the stream-and fitted up with every possible convenience.

Mary understood and appreciated the delicate management Charles exhibited in all this, indeed she knew that she owed to him -to his enterprise and energy, guided by his love, the most of her present comfort; and she poured out upon him that intensity of affection which ever fills woman's heart to overflowing when she is truly loved. But she was not happy in her love. The house was finished-the school collected-and there in the midst of nature's glory, Mary had nothing to desire for mind or body-yet with all, she was not happy. The laugh of the children echoed merrily from the hills, and mingled with the sound of the waters, and to them their idolized instructress wore always a cheering and alluring smile, but an aching void was beneath. The secret was here. Her mother, a woman of strong prejudices, had imbibed a dislike for Charles, which not all his goodness to her, in her lone widowhood, had overcome. Whenever he visited Mary, she testified by hints and inuendoes, that he was disagreeable to her, and she seemed to delight in tormenting her daughter by the open expression of her feelings, and by asserting her strong disapproval of the connection. This treatment was aggravated by her encouragement of Brady, who yet persevered in his suit, in the face of Mary's coldness. I have said that I doubted his love for her. Let me not be understood to mean that he was guided solely by selfish motives -far from it. He loved, perhaps, as well as he was capable of loving-but by his very nature his attachments were tinctured with alloy. He knew Mary to be one of a thousand in capacity-that she would make a

capital dairy woman, and help a husband to get rich. We will give him credit for some perception of her charms-but he was incapable of fervent love.

So waned the summer hours-and autumn's ruddy tinge pervaded nature. Winter came; and that too with its storms and bleakness passed away. Mary still taught her little school-still bore the complainings and reproaches of her mother with unrepining fortitude and submission. She was kind as ever to her parent; but alas! she was compelled to meet her lover in stolen interviews, and submit to receive, in passive sufferance at least, the visits of her mother's favourite, whom she now looked upon with growing dislike. One day, in early spring, Brady represented to her mother that a crisis must be attained-that he must learn decisively his standing with her, as his home demanded a mistress speedily. Mrs. Kennedy told him that Mary should marry him; and content to woo the daughter through the mother, he left her, much pleased with the result of the interview.

It was a fair deduction that he was unworthy of Mary, that he had so little refinement of feeling as thus to disregard her own disinclination to him, and rely for success on the influence of her parent. I do not mean the refinement imparted by education-but that natural elevation of character, that infusion of the " Ideality" of the phrenologist, which tinctures the most uncultivated with softness. Poor Mary! She was fulltoo full of it for peace. It shed an influence over every connection of her life.

It lent a

charm to her love, and made it doubly dear -but, at the same time, it sanctified the command of a mother, and forbad infringement. But resolutely she reasoned with that mother, when the stern unqualified command had been given to wed Brady, or live an exile from her parent's heart for ever,-and when reasoning proved abortive, she pleaded -earnestly-tearfully-on her very knees, to be spared-but her mother was inflexible.

A curse had been threatened for disobedience; could she disobey? Within a fortnight, one little fortnight-she must surrender all her fondest anticipations, or lose a parent's smile! Dreadful alternative! The mind not constituted like her own, may sneer at her hesitation; and see full justification and contentment in disobedience; but to her the name of parent was holy.

Her school had been dismissed early, for a storm had been gathering for some days, and already the drops began to fall. Now, as she sat by her chamber-window, pale as ashes, the clouds were pouring their treasures merrily down. She resolved to consult the minister-her well-tried friend; and Charles-her own Charles-at the thought of whom her bosom heaved, and her tears

mingled with the rain-drops,—and to make them the arbiters of her fate.

It rained all night, hard and steadily. She had determined to trip to the minister's before school hours in the morning; but all the morning it was one continued pourpour; and she could not leave the house. She had no pupils that day, on account of the storm, and her loneliness and agitation were unrelieved by customary duty. She had promised to meet Charles in the evening beneath an aged oak, their sacred trystingplace, but it poured down so as to prevent her, and oh, how much more saddening was this! All night-a sleepless night to herit was plash-plash-plash-upon the saturated earth; and the river's roar-for two days and nights of rain had swelled it to a mimic torrent-sounded like the knell of desolation. She awoke and looked abroad, when daylight dawned upon her sleepless eyes. All nature seemed resolved into wetness-and still, the third day, it was raining hard as ever. Again no pupils-again a dreary, dreary day-and no cessation to the storm. But towards night it cleared away -the sun broke forth-the atmosphere became sultry as in midsummer, and the drops glistened like pearls upon the trees. The birds that had begun to assemble from their more southerly sojourn during the cold weather, sung gaily on the branches, and all was life and light again. The change in nature's aspect infused a kindred influence into Mary's bosom, and she began to hope once more. But about midnight, after the strange sultriness had become oppressive, distant thunder rolled sluggishly on the ear, giving warning of a second change. Soon a rising breeze whispered through the trees-increasing every moment, until it blew a shrill whistle, as it careered round the corner of the house, and dashed the branches against each other, until they creaked and grated in the harsh collision. It died away for a moment, and nature was hushed in unkroken and awful repose; as though, for it was growing blacker and blacker with the dense clouds, she was drawing a long breath to prepare for a terrible conflict. Then the sharp lightning-flash, followed, almost instantly, by a crash of thunder that made the very hills tremble to their foundations, started sleepers bewildered from their beds, with dazzled eyes-and anon, all at once, torrents poured down from the black sky, overpowering, in the sound of their contact with earth, the very roar of the stream. There was but that one peal of thunder-but until nearly sunrise there was no pause in the rain-fall. The sun, however, rose in majesty in an almost clear sky, and men felt that his beams would gladden them through the day.

There had been three days and two nights of storm-and finally this last half-night's

torrent; and it was a strange forgetfulness in some of Mary's patrons to send their children to school that day, for a thought would suffice to convince, that when time had elapsed after all this flooding, for the surcharged rills and rivulets to pour their contents into the larger streams, fearful freshets were to be feared. It was strange, too, that Charles did not dream that the pride of his heart might be in danger. Apathy seemed to have fallen like a mantle upon all; and there were four or five little girls went skipping down the hill to the bridge, a few minutes before the hour of assemblage in the school-room, to drop sticks into the water, as they had been accustomed, and scream with delight as they were borne along, dashing against the stones in their course. But now, when they reached the bridge, a thrill of awe stole through their hearts, and they stood motionless, and almost breathless, with the sticks in their hands that they had gathered higher up the bank, as they gazed on the unusual aspect of the stream. It poured over the dam in a fierce and muddy cataract, hissing and boiling and being compressed into a narrower compass, by the jutting rocks on which the bridge rested, it foamed between them, imparting, in its giant impetus, a tremble to both the bridge and its foundations. Now and then huge logs came dancing madly over the dam; and striking upon one end on the ledge beneath, leaped up into the air, and plunged in again. One, of more elastic fibre than the rest, struck the bridge in its fall, while the girls were upon it, and shattered the railing; and then their mingled fear and awe found utterance in screams, and they ran to the house, afraid to linger longer. Mary, herself unconcerned, took her station by the window in the school-room, and could not keep her eyes from the river, so terribly majestic was it in its flow. Finally she became interested in her duties, and half an hour passed-and when again she looked out upon the water, it was verily within a few feet of the floor of the bridge-and its whole foaming surface covered with logs and timber brought from above. The mill appeared half immersed in a boiling gulf, and thenin a moment-while she was looking upon it, and terror was palsying her heart, it tottered and wavered-and tearing away some of the main supports of the dam as it was upheaved from its foundations, dam, mill, and all, were dashed against the bridge. Wedged in between the eternal rocks that formed its abutments, it partially closed the natural channel, and the fast increasing waters swelled upwards-ay, poured over the bridge-and 'swelled and swelled-all in a very minute until, forcing a way around, on the side by Mary's house-which you know was on the table of land, but a few feet above the level of the bridge-it came roaring on, and divid

ing a short distance above the house, a part tumbled into the ravine, while a part poured down the slight concavity between the house and the hill-side-the space being about fifteen feet wide. All this, as I say, was the work of a minute-and when Mary found voice to scream "Mother! Mother!" these lone females and children were isolated there in the foaming waters, with none to counsel or to save!

They rushed to the door-but to have attempted to force that furious current had been madness! It seemed death to remain too-for soon the stream was at the very doorsill-and when Mary took in her arms the last of the paralyzed children to convey it up the stairs, every foot-fall splashed in the water that now covered the floor! They screamed for help from the upper windows; -how the thunder of the torrent mocked and drowned their feeble voices! Then the hope of life being passed away, they kneeled and prayed to Almighty God to have mercy upon their souls!

By this time, the stream had so risen as to half fill the lower story of the house, and conceal the bridge entirely, which, protected from the logs by the blockade on its upper side, still maintained its position. But this made the situation of the females and children the more dangerous; for timber, logs, and wrecks of buildings sailed furiously by the house on either side, only prevented from bearing to destruction with its precious contents, by a tree that breasted their onsets and partially diverted their course. But now and then it failed to check some tumbling fragment-which thundered against the dwelling -shivering the glass of the windows, and making every timber shake in the concussion -but making the poor hearts within to shake and shiver more!

By and bye, one tardy villager after another appeared on the bank above, and though not a word they spoke could be heard by Mary and her mother in the fierce roaring, their frantic gestures too truly bespoke their horror, and cast a deeper gloom upon the sufferers. Then Charles appeared. He darted down to the edge of the water-then up again-casting his eyes around in wildness, unknowing what to do! What a sight for his eyes to behold! There knelt Mary by the window, pale as death, with clasped hands and dishevelled hair, looking upon him, and he helpless as an infant, in the face of that mighty danger! Yet he shouted to her to hope still, in a voice whose trembling testified to his own despair-and not a sound of which reached her ears. Once or twice, in very madness, he would have sprung into the torrent-but was held forcibly back by the villagers. Brady came, too-and his comparative calmness formed a strong contrast to the wild anxiety which Charles ex

hibited. He at once declared that nothing could save them; and shook his head at every plan suggested by one and another.

"It is vain-all vain," he cried again. "They cannot be saved!"

"Liar!" cried Charles, with quivering lip and starting tears, "she must-she shall be saved!" He rushed once more to the water's brink-once more would have plunged in, and was again drawn back. Then, wringing his hands in very agony, as a huge log struck the house, and crashing through the side, inclined it fearfully, he burst into a frenzied laugh as he exclaimed, "I have it! I have it! follow me! follow me!"

The village was half a mile distant. To that he directed his rapid course, followed by his townsmen, the most regarding him now as a poor maniac-but some, among whom were the scarcely less maddened parents of the exposed children, inspired with sudden hope. Charles paused, breathless, at the tall 'Liberty pole' on the green. "Dig it down," he cried, "for heaven's sake, quick! quick! or they are lost!"

What will not men's energies accomplish in an emergency like this! They caught his fire of hope-they sprung to toil-the pole was rooted up in a few moments-horses were chained to it as speedily-and away they went with their burden on the full gallop,as though the very beast knew that many precious lives were depending on their speed. Arrived at the bank, the pole was slid down, until Charles's accurate perception of the proper distance arrested it; and then, lifted upon its end, it was directed to the house, and the females being motioned from the window, it was so truly aimed, that it struck the sill. Oh, Heaven-what a shout arose! that overtopped the torrent's roar, and filled the ears of the endangered ones with gladness. Quicker than thought, Charles divested himself of a portion of his clothing, and hanging from the pole, ascended to the window by the aid of his hands and feet, above the boiling tumult below, fast as a practised sailor climbs the mast.

"Come, Mary," said he, "not a moment is to be lost!"

"The children first!" she resolutely said. He knew her moral resolution. He revered her self-sacrifice in that awful hour; and yielded without a word of argument. Fastening a child to his back with shawls and handkerchiefs, he returned as he had come, and safely deposited his burden. Why need I multiply words? Thus did he restore all those five children safely to the arms of their parents-when not the parents themselves, or one other villager, dared to brave death as he did, in his aid! But Mary and her mother were in danger still-yeshideous danger-for the house was assailed now by stroke after stroke, and yielded more

and more, and it was plain, must soon be swept away. Charles was in the room again— "Now Mary! Now Mary!"

"My mother before me!"

He almost shrieked as he obeyed her, for his strength, nerved as it was by the excitement of the crisis, was almost gone. But the face of the girl wore the calmness and elevation of an angel: all the tumult of fear had vanished-the sting of death had passed already away, and he knew as before, that she was not to be shaken. But before he left her, he strained her to his bosom, and kissed her lips, cheek, and forehead, and looked upon her in agony, as he said "faréwell!"-for he felt, while the shattered house reeled at every frequent crash against it, that he should never see her more alive! Then he lashed Mrs. Kennedy to his back, and, as he had done with the children, descended with her. But it was slowly-painfullyand when he reached the shore, he laid mo. tionless for a moment, breathing hard in his exhaustion; while the blood covered his lacerated hands and feet. But Mary was not yet saved!-his own Mary! He sprang to the pole again-he entered the chamber-he appeared with her at the window! house tottered as though on a point! They shouted to encourage him; and he started on this last descent! Once-twice-three times, he hung without motion, in his absolute exhaustion! yet again he started! He approaches the shore! Their hands almost touch him! They have, indeed, grasped his feet!-and now, while house, pole, and all go thundering down the abyss, the lovers are drawn to the safe, dry bank!

The

No pen ere this has chronicled his godlike feat. Was he not worthy of Mary's hand, which Mrs. Kennedy now freely accorded to him? You may well imagine he strides forward to wealth and honour-a man like that! -with such a wife to encourage him!

THE LAST MOMENTS OF EMINENT MEN.

"LIFE," says Sr William Temple, " is like wine; he, who would drink it pure, must not drain it to the dregs." Lord Byron often talked of death; and never with dread. "I do not wish," he would say, 66 to live to become old." The sentiment of the ancient poet, that to die young is a boon of heaven to its favourites," was repeatedly quoted by him, with approbation. The cer tainty of death he would call the only relief against the burdens of life, which could not be borne, were they not of very limited duration.

But the general sentiment of mankind declares old age to be honoured and happy. After an active and successful career, the repose of declining life is serene and cheerful. All men by common consent revere the aged.

gray hairs are a crown of glory; the object of respect, but not of envy. The hour of evening is not necessarily overcast; and the aged man, exchanging the pursuits of ambition for the quiet of observation, the strife of public discussion for the diffuse but instructive language of experience, passes to the grave, amidst grateful recollections, and the tranquil enjoyment of satisfied desire.

The happy, it is agreed by all, are afraid to contemplate death; the unhappy, it is often said, look forward to it as a release from suffering. "I think of death often," said a " and I distinguished but dissatisfied man ; view it as a refuge. There is something calm and soothing to me in the thought of death; and the only time that I feel repugnance to it, is on a fine day, in solitude, in a beautiful country, when all nature seems rejoicing in light and life."

Man

This is the language of affectation. never despises death. Numerous as may be the causes for disgust with life, its end is never contemplated with indifference. Religion may elevate the soul to a sublime reliance on the benefits of a future existence; nothing else can do it. The love of honour may brave danger; the passion of melancholy may indulge in an aversion to continued being; philosophy may resign itself to death with composure; the sense of shame may conduct to fortitude; yet they, who would disregard death, must turn their thoughts from the consideration of its terrors. It is an instinct of nature to strive to preserve our being; and the instinct cannot be eradicated. The mind may turn away from the contemplation of horrors; it may fortify itself by refusing to observe the extent of impending evil; the instinct of life is still opposed to death; and he, who looks directly at ita nd professes indifference, is a hypocrite, or is self-deceived. He that calls boldly upon death, is dismayed on finding him near. The child looks to its parent, as if to discern a glimpse of hope; the oldest are never so old, but they desire life for one day longer; even the infant, as it exhales its breath, springs from its pillow to meet its inother, as if there were help where there is love.

There is a story told of one of the favourite marshals of Napoleon, who, in a battle in the south of Germany, was struck by a cannon-ball, and so severely wounded, that there was no hope of a respite. Summoning the surgeon, he ordered his wounds to be dressed; and, when help was declared to be unavailing, the dying officer, pushed into a frenzy by the passion for life, burned with vindictive angeragainst the medical attendant, threatening the heaviest penalties, if his art should bring no relief. The dying man clamorously demanded that Napoleon should be sent for, as one who had power to save; whose words could stop the effusion of blood

from his wounds, and awe nature itself into submission. Life expired amidst maledictions heaped upon the innocent surgeon, whose skill was unavailing. This account would have seemed incredible, if we had not had occasion to know a similar case, though in humbler life; a sick man, vowing that he would not die, cursing his physician, who announced the near termination of his life, and insisting that he would live, as if in derision of the laws of nature. To some minds this foolish frenzy appeared like blasphemy; it was but the uncontrolled display of a passion for life; the instinct of self-preservation, exerted in a rough and undisciplined mind.

Even in men of strong religious convictions, the end of life is not always met with serenity; and the moralist and philosopher sometimes express an apprehension, which cannot be pacified. Dr. Johnson was the instructer of his age; his works are full of the effusions of piety, the austere lessons of reflecting wisdom. It might have been supposed, that religion would have reconciled him to the decree of Providence; that philosophy would have taught him to acquiesce in a necessary issue; that science would have inspired him with confidence in the skill of his medical attendants. And yet it was not so. A sullen gloom overclouded bis mind; he could not summon resolution to tranquillize his emotions; and, in the impotence of despair, taking advantage of the absence of his attendants, he gashed himself with ghastly and debilitating wounds, as if the blind lacerations of his weak arm could prolong the moments of an existence, which the skill of the best physicians of London declared to be numbered. So earnest was the passion for a continuance of life, that he, who had, during his whole career, been a monitor of moderation, who had acquired fame by enforcing the duties of morality, was now betrayed by a lingering desire of life into acts of imbecile and useless cowardice.

"Is there any thing you?" said Taylor to

on earth I can do for Dr. Wolcott, as he

lay on his death-bed. The passion for life dictated the answer. "Give me back my youth." They were the last words of the satirical buffoon.

If Johnson could hope for relief from selfinflicted wounds; if the poet could prefer to his friend the useless prayer for a restoration of his youth, we may readily believe what historians relate to us of the end of Louis XI. of France; a monarch, who was not destitute of eminent qualities as well as disgusting vices; possessing courage, a knowledge of men and of business, a powerful will, a disposition favorable to the administration of justice among his subjects; view. ing impunity in injustice, as a royal prerogative. Remorse, fear, a consciousness of