made all his money in trade. I wonder why Mrs. Ducie invited her." "Because," said the other, "Mrs. Ducie is not very particular. She likes people that have plenty of money, no matter where it comes from. But I would as soon speak to-to-our music-master's daughter as to that girl." The whole room heard this dialogue, for the young ladies were impelled by the fairy scent-bottle to utter their thoughts as loudly as if they had been in their own apartment at home. The object of their scorn was almost overwhelmed by shame and mortification. "Act as your feelings prompt you," tinkled the silvery voice in Mary's car, as the speaker nestled herself into the middle of the little girl's bouquet. The guests resumed their well-bred masks, and all evidence of anything unusual had disappeared, when Mary boldly crossed the room, and seated herself beside Jessie Avery. "You look very lonely," she said to the poor girl. "Should you like to dance? Let us join the set that is now forming." Miss Avery looked at her with a grateful smile. "I do not remember having noticed you before," she said. “Are you one of the visitors, or do you belong to the family?" "I am Mrs. Ducie's niece," answered Mary, "and I live with her." "Always?" "Yes, always, since my dear father and mother died." And a tear glistened in her eye. "But we shall be too late for the quadrille," exclaimed she, recovering herself. "Let me see, where can I place this precious bouquet in safety?" "I "Behind that vase," tinkled the fairy's voice. will take care of it. But let me breathe on you before you go. There. Be amiable and unselfish, and you will no longer remain unnoticed." As the perfumed breath of the fairy passed over the young girl's brow, the traces of sorrow which had lingered there disappeared, and her face beamed with youthful happiness. Her eyes grew bright and her cheeks assumed a rosier hue; her hair recovered from its limp heaviness and waved in graceful curls. With a lighter heart than she had carried since her residence in the cold atmosphere of a rich relation's home, she joined in the dance; and entirely forgetting herself endeavoured to raise the spirits of her companion. Her efforts succeeded perfectly; and Jessie was dancing with as much ease and animation as any of the guests, when she unfortunately slipped on the polished boards, and fell, dragging her partner with her, and totally disarranging the quadrille. When the two girls were raised from the floor, it was discovered that an extensive rent had been made in Mary's dress, the beautiful lace flounce of which was all in tatters. She was much disconcerted, for she knew that her aunt would be exceedingly displeased, and would contrive to throw all the blame upon her. But a gentle tinkling sounded in her ear, bidding her make light of the matter for poor Jessie's sake; and when, as the vapourous appearance floated away again, she turned and beheld her partner covered with blushes, and the malicious Miss Dawsons pointing her out to the ridicule of their friends, and enjoying a laugh at her expense, she took the mortified girl's hand in hers, and begged her to think no more about it. Mary's good-nature and self-control had not passed unnoticed, and many of the party began to think her exceedingly pretty, and to wonder that they had not remarked her before. But seeing that Jessie could not recover her self-possession, she resisted all importunities to dance again; and resuming her bouquet by the way, led her companion to a small inner room, where a table was covered with books and engravings for those who did not choose to join the quadrilles. Miss Avery was soon intent on a beautiful Annual, and the fairy emerging from the blossoms under which she had remained concealed, settled herself comfortably in the lap of the moss rose-bud, which the heat of the room had expanded into a half-blown rose. "Well, my dear," said she to Mary, "do you still feel so useless and sorrowful as in the early part of the evening?" "No," answered Mary, "I see things in a very different light now. "Are you convinced that no one is so humble as to be without a place or a duty among his fellows? Do you perceive that all can do something, that the most insignificant being in the world can render his neighbour happier, and thereby ensure his own happiness?" "Yes, I believe all this." 'You cannot all work miracles nor change the condition of kingdoms. But if each would honestly and earnestly do what fell to his share, according to his ability, seizing every opportunity of serving another, the smallest, weakest boy or girl would be surprised to find how much he could accomplish, how necessary he might render himself to those around him. You cannot see the remote consequences of your kindness to poor Miss Avery this evening, but I am gifted to behold them, and upon the word of a fairy, you will never repent the notice you have bestowed upon her. Love all around thee, my dear little girl, and orphaned and friendless as thou seemest to be, thou shalt meet in the desert with loving hearts, who shall yield thee a rich return." As these last words tinkled in Mary's ears, the fairy enveloped herself in her chariot-cloud, and was floating towards the gilded ceiling ere Mary could utter a word of entreaty or farewell. The orphan stretched out her arms as if to arrest the flight of her beautiful friend; but the latter waved her tiny hand, and disappeared, as she had arrived, amid a burst of harmony from the orchestra below. 'My dear Miss Jamieson." she said, "have you been asleep? I have spoken to you several times and could not make you hear." "Oh no!" replied Mary with a sigh, for she was still regretting her little visitor. She looked at her bouquet, in the midst of which something glittered in the rays of the waxen tapers. It was the ruby smelling-bottle, which had dropped from the fairy's robes as she ascended, and now lay in the snowy cup of a myrtle blossom like a drop of crimson dew. "Oh!" exclaimed Jessy, coming to her side, "what a tiny beautiful thing!" "I have just found it in my bouquet," Mary replied, not liking to say more; for she knew that Jessie would not easily credit the wonderful tale she had to tell. "I believe it is a little bottle made of a ruby; and look; what a tiny stopper!" The two young girls tried to extract the stopper, but fortunately could not succeed in doing so; for it only properly belongs to a fairy to produce marvels, and compel people to speak without their wills. When Jessie had returned home with her papa, who came for her at an early hour, Mary ascended to her own little room, and carefully deposited her treasure along with the bouquet in a small rosewood box of which she kept the key. The bouquet faded, yet marvellous to relate, the heart of the half-blown rose retained its hue and fragrance; and after the lapse of years its rosy petals were just as soft and fresh, as in the hour when the fairy reclined upon them as upon the cushion of an easy chair. NOTES ON THE MONTHS. THE COMING OF SPRING-APRIL. silver-tipped clouds as they float along in the vaulted azure-to walk along some secluded field-path or green lane, decked with primroses and wild flowers, starting the hare from her seat, and the partridge from her nest; what can be more delightful than such occupations of leisure at this season, trivial though they may appear to be. Now do troops of little children in the country betake themselves to the fields, and gather daisies and primroses, the elders filling their baskets to prepare the oldfashioned cowslip wine. Now do the followers of Isaac Walton drag out their fishing-rods, baskets, and nets, from the closet, and dress up "killing" flies, in prepa AGAIN the Spring, shedding soft dews from her ethereal wings, sweeps over the earth, once more made beautiful. The skirts of the departing winter have disappeared, and already in fancy we feel the warm breath of summer in our face. The earth is putting on her garment of green; the meadows are thick with the bright young grass-that perfect mark of the beautiful season; the trees, the bushes, and the hedgerows, are spreading out their crisp fans of foliage; buds are leaping into flowers, which start up along the foot-paths, to beautify the feet of the wayfarer; and colours, gay and brilliant, every-ration for the first fine morning following a shower of where come out from the winter chambers, in which they have been sleeping, towards the glad light of the sun, which looks down upon them from a sky of blue, wooing them forth to meet him. The mornings are now clear, fresh, and joyous. Night melts suddenly into day, and the stars wane gladly before the light of the sun, as he comes dancing up the east, driving the fleecy clouds before him; all things seeming to rejoice in the innocent brightness of the newborn day. And towards evening, as the sun goes down, and the glowing clouds linger about his setting,-when the day's purple eye is closing with the flowers of the spring, and the God-built sky, rising like a mighty dome, is sparkling with its millions of stars-the gems set by the Creator in the hour of night; then does a silence seem to steal over the earth-a slumber so profound, so deep, so vast, that "Even the motion of an angel's wing Would interrupt the intense tranquillity Of silent hills, and more than silent sky." The great charm of Spring is in its sunshine-whether as glinting down through the branches of lofty trees, whose leaves are still young and fresh, or peeping into the cool grots and caverns of the earth, or creeping in at latticed windows through a framework of roses and drooping woodbine, or throwing its long line of beams upon the waters, making them to dance and sparkle with delight, or shedding its magical radiance over hill and dale, over stream and meadow, which drink in the pure flood of light. Beautiful sunshine! we can feel it as it beams upon us, and shines along our path. The lark flies up in in the early morn to hail it, and makes the heavens ring with her carol. It lays its glorious pencil on the meadows, and straightway primroses and ladysmocks, columbines and red peonies, violets and buttercups, come out to gild the season with their beauty. Even the April shower cannot pass without reading its beautiful lesson to us from the clouds. How finely does that true lover of nature, Leigh Hunt, remark-that there is a moral as well as a material beauty in colour, an inherent gladness, an intention on the part of nature to share with us a pleasure felt by herself. Colours are the smiles of nature. When they are extremely smiling, and break forth into other beauty besides, they are her laughs, as in the flowers. rain. Now do the lovers of country in towns bethink themselves of a pic-nic in the woods, and the omnibus or car is bespoken for the first fine day. But, ah, fickle April! a shower of rain or sleet, following these bright sunshiny days, damps their hopes, and forbids their too sanguine expectations. April resembles the lover-the tears succeed the smiles, the clouds the sunshine, in rapid alternation. But the rain passes, the wind abates, the rainbow spans the heavens, and spring is in all her beauty again. The birds are now fast returning from warmer climes to their summer-home in England. The swallow sits twittering in the eaves, or skims the river and the lake in the evening, catching its food, or picking up from the banks the bits of clay and straw with which it builds its wonderful nest. The cuckoo now makes the woods resound with his notes; and the yellow wag-tail, the redstart, white-throat, wry-neck, and black-cap, have all returned. The blackbird's mellow, flute-like voice rings in the covert. Who so gay as the lark now, which springs up to the heavens, singing its love and joy with full-throated melody? The less musical rook caws away among the lofty trees, on the topmost boughs of which it builds its nest. The wren is busy forming its house in the stump of a decayed tree; the sparrow is already laying her eggs in her nest, which she has constructed in the thickest part of a high hedge; the bittern sits in her seat among thick reeds and rushes; the owl lies snug in the hollow of a ruined wall; while the linnet, a true lover of nature, has found a retreat in the midst of a snug green copse. Gaudy butterflies begin to appear, and excite the chase of the happy children, who thus begin the sport of life. Flowers are blooming everywhere, in the garden, in the fields, on the waters. The water-hen sails about among primrose-coloured water-flags, and waterlilies in clusters, almost buried amid their large, shieldshaped leaves. Early and late is the cottage gardener at work among his flower-beds and his kitchen stuffs. He watches the growth of his star of Bethlehem, ladysmock, and virgin's bower, with an almost paternal solicitude. He boasts of his violets and narcissuses, praises his anemones and lady's slippers, as if they were part of his family. He has an eye too, to "the substantials." He watches the blossoming of the fruit trees, and gets in his cabbages, peas, and early potatoes. His soul is full of hope, he labours with joy, for the prospect of another abundant harvest is before him. The mind of man is, in spring, more than at any other season, disposed to be gay and happy. The heart leaps with joy at the beautiful aspect of nature. The sense of joy passes into the soul at every inlet of feeling. Man The spring has in it a power, more than perhaps any can no longer be sad: to be so, would be out of harmony other season, of attracting man from the mere material with nature-like a mourner at a marriage festival. earth, to rise up to the enjoyment of the spiritual beauty Spring brings youthful and pleasant associations with in which the earth has been created. We feel a longing it makes us to feel young, and live our early thoughts to be away from the stir and fret of the busy world. over again; and the same spirit lives throughout universal nature; it turns all creation to love-love, the universal feeling. To see the buds and leaves come forth, like light into the world-to hear the small birds singing to their happy mates-to watch the curling smoke rising up from a far-off valley-to view the gnats, thin dancers on the air, tripping it on a merry sunbeam-to admire the There is a thirst to be among the field-paths, a wish to have the wings of the bird to fly far away from the feverish hum of the city, to find refreshment with nature in the silent woods, and under the shade of green and over arching trees, to muse and meditate till the spirit of peace and love flows into our soul like a gale from Heaven. Away, away, ye pent-up denizens of crowded cities! Go out among the spring haunts, and see how the earth and the sky are now holding jubilee. There you will observe the evidences of the perpetual youth and beauty of creation; your hearts will be awakened to a sense of deep joy, and your minds influenced for years to come by a holy communion with nature. THE POETICALLY MISERABLE. minor studies. I am persuaded that the whole of life would be beautified and vivified by them; and one great advantage which I do not fear to repeat, is, that from this variety of cultivation various excellences would be developed, in persons whose natures, not being suitable for the few things cultivated and rewarded at present, are thick with thorns and briars, and present the appearance of waste land; whereas if sown with the fit seed, and tended in a proper manner, they would come into some sort of cultivation, which would bring forth something good, perhaps something which is excellent of its kind. Such people who now lie sunk in self-disrespect, would become useful, or ornamental, and therefore genial; they would be an assistance to society instead of a weight upon it.-Friends in Council. EXPANDING THE CHEST. Those in wealthy circumstances, or who pursue sedentary employments within doors, generally use their lungs but very little,-breathe but very little air into the chest ; and thus, independently of positions, contract a wretchedly narrow, small chest, and lay the foundation for the loss of health and beauty. All this can be perfectly obviated by a little attention to the manner of breathing. Recollect, the lungs are like a bladder in their structure, and can be stretched open to double their ordinary size, with perfect safety, giving a noble chest, and a perfect immunity from consumption. The agent, and the only agent required, is the common air we breathe, supposing however, that no obstacle exists, external to the chest, such as lacing, or tying it around with stays, or tight dress, or have shoulder-straps upon it. On rising from the bed in the morning, place yourself in an erect posture, your head thrown back, and shoulders entirely off the chest; now inhale or suck in all the air you can, so as to fill the chest to the very bottom of it, so as no more air can be got in; now hold your breath, and throw your arms off behind, holding in your breath as long as possible. Repeat these long breaths as many times as you please; when done in a cold room it is much better, because the air is much denser, and will act much more powerfully in expanding the chest. Exercise the chest in this manner, it will become very flexible and expansible, and will enlarge the capacity and size of the lungs.-Common School Advocate. Read their lugubrious ditties, and you would think that life had utterly lost all charms for them before they have crossed its threshold. The cause of such overwhelming despondency it is in vain to discover; for none of them have the pluck, like Byron, to commit imaginary crimes, or to represent themselves as racked with remorse for murders which they never perpetrated. If one of them would broadly accuse himself of having run his man through the vitals-of having, in an experimental fit, plucked up a rail, and so caused a terrific accident or of having done some other deed of unreasonable turpitude and atrocity, we could understand what the fellow meant by his excessively unmirthful monologues. But we are not indulged with any full-flavoured fictions of the kind. On the contrary, our bards affect the purity and innocence of the dove. They shrink from naughty phrases with instinctive horror-have an idea that the mildest kind of flirtation involves a deviation from virtue; and, in their more savage moments of wrath, none of them would injure a fly. How, then, can we account for that unhappy mist which floats between them and the azure heaven, so heavily as to cloud the whole tenor of their existence? What makes them maunder so incessantly about gloom, and graves, and misery? Why confine themselves everlastingly to apple-blossoms, whereof the product in autumn will not amount to a single Ribston pippin? What has society done to them, or what can they possibly have done to society, that the future tenor of their span must be one of unmitigated woe? We rather suspect, that most of the poets would be puzzled to give satisfactory answers to such queries. They might, indeed, reply, that misery is the heritage of genius; but that, we apprehend, would be arguing upon false premises, for we can discover very little genius to vindicate the existence of so vast a quantity of woe. We hope, for the sake of human nature, that the whole thing is a humbug; nay we have not the least doubt of it; for the experience of a good many years has convinced us, There is nothing which adds so much to the beauty that a young poet in print is a very different person from and power of man, as a good moral character. It is his the actual existing bard. The former has nerves of wealth-his influence-his life. It dignifies him in gossamer, and states that he is suckled with dew; the every station, exalts him in every condition, and glorifies latter is generally a fellow of his inches, and has no in-him at every period of life. Such a character is more to superable objection to gin and water. In the one capacity, be desired than everything else on earth. he feebly implores an early death; in the other, he shouts man free and independent. No servile tool-no crouchfor broiled kidneys long after midnight, when he ought ing sycophant-no treacherous honour-seeker ever bore such to be snoring in his truckle.-Professor Wilson. a character. The pure joys of truth and righteousness never spring in such a person. If young men but knew how much a good character would dignify and exalt them, now glorious it would make their prospects, even in this life; never should we find them yielding to the grovelling and base-born purposes of human nature. CULTIVATION OF ACCOMPLISHMENTS. MORAL CHARACTER. STARTING IN THE WORLD. It makes a More large and general cultivation of music, of the fine arts, of manly and graceful exercises, of various minor branches of science and natural philosophy, will, I am persuaded, enhance greatly the pleasure of society, and mainly in this, that it will fill up that want of something Many an unwise parent labours hard and lives spato do besides talking, which is so grievously felt at pre-ringly all his life for the purpose of leaving enough to sent. A group of children, with their nursery chairs as give his children a start in the world, as it is called. playthings, are often able to make a better, pleasanter Setting a young man afloat with money left him by his evening of it than an assembly of fine people in London, relatives is like tying bladders under the arms of one where nobody has anything to do, where nothing is going who cannot swim; ten chances to one he will lose his on but rapid conversation, where the ladies dare not move bladders and go to the bottom. Teach him to swim, and freely about, and where a good chorus, a childish game, he will never need the bladders. Give your child a sound or even the liberty to work or read, would be a perfect education, and you have done enough for him. See to godsend to the whole assembly. This, however, is but it that his morals are pure, his mind cultivated, and his a very small part of the advantage and aid to the art of whole nature made subservient to laws which govern living which would flow from a greatly widened basis of man, and you have given what will be of more value than education in accomplishments, and what are now deemed the wealth of the Indies. Rhymes for Young Readers. THE SAILOR BOY'S GOSSIP. You say, dear Mamma, it is good to be talking With those who will kindly endeavour to teach, He told me of lands where he soon will be going, He told me that islands far out in the ocean Are mountains of coral that insects have made, And I freely confess I had hardly a notion That insects could work in the way that he said. He spoke of wide deserts where sand-clouds are flying, He told me of places away in the East, Where topaz, and ruby, and sapphi.e are found; He declared he had gazed on a very high mountain, I thought our own Thames was a very great stream, But how tiny our largest of rivers must seem To those he has sailed on, three thousand miles long! He spoke, dear Mamma, of so many strange places He told me of waters, whose wonderful falling Oh! I long, dear Mamma, to learn more of these stories ENGLISH LANDSCAPE. ELIZA COOK. DIAMOND DUST. MEN only resemble each other when sophisticated by sordid or fashionable life; whatever is natural admits of variety. WHAT maintains one vice would bring up two children. A NOBLE heart, like the sun, shows its greatest countenance in its lowest estate. TALENT is an eye-sore to tyranny. In weakness, tyranny fears it as a power; in power, it hates it as a liberty. THE merit of our actions consists not in doing extraordinary actions, but in doing ordinary actions extraordinarily well. WHERE danger is, firmness will find its rightful station; and while men strongly fear, they cease to feel jealousy. THERE is a refinement which even wit and knowledge of the world cannot teach their votaries, who often wound the heart without violating perfect politeness. MAN feels himself so perishable that he bows before the presence of immutability. We do not arrive at the sublime by degrees, for infinite distances separate it even from the beautiful. SOME desire is necessary to keep life in motion, and he whose real wants are supplied must admit those of fancy. CIVILIZATION-A consolatory progression, which ought to make us proud of the present, and to inspire us with confidence in the future. THE fate of a man of genius and feeling is like that of a tuft of flowers; as an ornament, he may mount upon the head of all, or go to decay in the wilderness. HOSPITALITY is commanded to be exercised even towards an enemy when he cometh to thine house. The tree doth not withdraw its shade even from the woodcutter. LARGE minds are rarely quick. THE world is more apt to reward appearances than deserts. IN jealousy there is more love of self than of any ore else. Ir is an old saying, that "self-praise is offensive." In regard to the breath of calumny, the public nose appears to be less delicate. WORDS are sometimes signs of ideas, and sometimes of the want of them. THERE was some philosophy in the hen-pecked husband, who, being asked why he had placed himself so completely under the government of his wife, answered, "To avoid the worse slavery of being under my own." THE public character of a man is the tinsel worn at Court; his private character is the service of gold kept at his banker's. he may be. TRIALS are moral ballast that often prevent our capsizing. The climate of England is the finest in the world for a landscape painter. We do not want the blue skies of LEAVES seem light, and useless, and idle, and waverItaly, or their bright burning sun, glaring over every-ing, and changeable-they even dance; yet God has thing, causing distraction to the mind and eye. What made them part of the oak. In so doing, He has given we want we have in perfection-an atmosphere with us a lesson, not to deny the stout-heartedness within,' clouds and storms, and sunshine lighting up one object, because we see the lightsomeness without. whilst others are in shade. Our country furnishes most romantic scenes, rocks and waterfalls, glens and mountains. The banks of our sparkling streams and ancient rivers are the homes of the white-leafed willow and darkfoliaged alder; on our rocky hills grow the fir and loftier pine; in our old village churchyards are still found the cedar and the yew; our old mansions are approached by avenues of chestnuts and sycamores; we have the twisted thorn, the stately elm; that lovely Venus of trees, the towering ash; the spreading beech; the Hercules of the forest, the "unwedgeable and gnarled oak;" with a host of others, too numerous to name-all studies for the painter, and ornamental to our country. POETRY is to philosophy what the Sabbath is to the rest of the week. GLITTER is the refuge of the mean. Printed and Published for the Proprietor, by JOHN OWEN CLARKE, (of No. 9, Hemingford Terrace, East, in the Parish of St. Mary, Islington, in the County of Middlesex) at his Printing Office, No. 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street, in the Parish of St. Bride, in the City of London, Saturday, April 6, 1850. MAKING THE WORST OF IT! WHILE there is one way of making the best of life, there is also another way of making the worst of it. We are happy, or the contrary, very much as we ourselves desire. It depends chiefly on our own temper and disposition, whether we extract joy or misery from existence. There is a habit of being happy, as there is a habit of being unhappy; and the habit may be cultivated either way, like every other. We can bring the power of the will to bear upon it, so that life may be made either a path of flowers or a bed of thorns. There are always two sides of life at which we can look-the bright and the shady-and it depends on ourselves mainly at which side we shall look. While there are some happy natures which see the sunny side of all things-extract consolation from sorrow, gather strength from adversity, and can smile even through their tears-there are others who see only the cloud, but never its silver lining-who make even joy a sad affair, converting gladness into poison, and causing existence to be a very bitter thing to all who are near and about them. It is the temper and disposition which does it all. A sweet temper and a happy disposition is one of the most beautiful and lovable things in nature. It spreads gladness around it; and infects, with its genial influence, all within its reach. Mental qualities are certainly admirable gifts in domestic life; but while they may dazzle and delight, they will not excite love and affection to any thing like the same extent as a warm and happy heart. They do not wear half so well, and do not please half so much. And yet how little pains are generally taken to cultivate the beautiful quality of good temper and happy disposition! And how often is a life, which otherwise might have been blessed, embittered and soured by the encouragement of peevish and fretful habits, so totally destructive of everything like social and domestic comfort! How often have we seen both men and women set themselves round as if with bristles, so that no one dared to approach them without the fear of being pricked. For want of a little occasional command over one's temper, an amount of misery is occasioned in society which is positively frightful. Thus is enjoyment turned into bitterness, and life becomes like a journey, barefooted amongst prickles, thorns, and briars. [PRICE 14d. Arthur Vining was a young man of good prospects in life, well-connected, well-educated, and profitably employed in a prosperous commercial concern. He was of social habits, fond of pleasure, like all young natures, and enjoyed life with a relish. He was intelligent too, and disposed to employ a portion of his leisure hours in the cultivation of his mind, aud in reading books of rather a superior order; he even occasionally contributed papers and lectures to the Mechanics' Institute, of his neighbourhood. On the whole, he seemed to have in him the elements of a sound manly character, bating his want of decision and firmness of purpose; for he too often gave way to impulse, on which he acted, rather than on rule and principle. At twenty-one, Arthur fell in love with a pretty face at a ball-flirted with it, danced with it, and went home to dream about it. Ah, Arthur? take care! But nohow few think of caution in such matters? Was not Fanny beautiful, charming, artless, graceful, and an exquisite dancer? Arthur did not reflect that grace in the dance, however attractive in its place, is a matter of but small moment in the business of home life; and that pretty features, though delightfully attractive at first, become tiresome and monotonous, unless they have a cheerful disposition and a happy nature to keep them in play. In short, Arthur fell in love, as young men do, without any serious thought; he gave himself up to his impulse-wrote sonnets to the pretty face, courted it, proposed to it, was accepted by it, and finally married it. Then Arthur took the pretty face home, and began to know something more about it. It is a serious step this of marriage, after all. Once taken there is no looking back. The irrevocable pledge has been given: the knot cannot be untied. If a mistake has been made, the consequences of the mistake tell upon the entire after-life. But if the lover has wisely wed, and the union be one of heart, soul, and intelligence, as well as of passion, then is life made happy indeed-its march is musical, its purposes are hallowed, it is consecrated and blessed. In such a case, marriage is as "A golden chain let down from Heaven, That falls like sleep on lovers, and combines In equal knots." There is a current maxim among us that marriage is a lottery." Well! it may be so, if we abjure the teach. |