cold in every limb, and sunk as low as we in nerve and spirits, from their want of sufficient food. But this thought is supportable in cases where we ing them as we are cheered; that there is a mere may fairly hope that the greatest ideas are cheerset-off of their cold and hunger against our disease; and that we are alike inspired by spiritual vigor in the belief that our Father is with us that we are only encountering the probations of our pilgrimage-that we have a divine work given us to car

out, now in pain and now in joy. There is comfort in the midst of the sadness and shame when we are thinking of the poor who can reflect and pray-of the old woman who was once a punctual and eager attendant at church-of the wasting child who was formerly a Sunday-scholar who retain the privilege of their humanity-of -of the reduced gentleman or destitute student

has abandoned all prospects of pardon or reprieve, that the capital convict sleeps soundly and dreams of green fields. So with ourselves; once satisfied that our case was beyond remedy, we gave up without reserve all dreams of future health and strength, and prepared, instead, to compete with that very able invalid who was able to be knocked down with a feather. Thenceforward, free of those jarring vibrations between hope and fear, relieved from all tantalizing speculations on the weather's clearing up, our state has been one of comparative peace and ease. We would not give one of our Pectoral Lozenges to be told, we are looking better than a month ago—not a splinter of our broken crutch to be promised a new lease of life-a renewal of our youth like the eagle's!"looking before and after." But there is no mitigaSuch flatteries go in at one ear, the deaf one, and out at the other. We never shall be well again, till broken bones are mended with "soft-sawder." Are we, therefore, miserable, hypped, disconsolate? Answer ye book-shelves, whence we draw the consolations of Philosophy, the dreams of Poetry and Romance-the retrospections of History; and glimpses of society from the better novels; mirth, comfort, and entertainment even for those small hours become so long from an unhealthy vigilance. Answer ye pictures and prints, a Portrait Gallery of Nature!—and reply in your own tones, dear old fiddle, so often tuned to one favorite sadly-sweet air, and the words of Curran :

"But since in wailing
There's nought availing,
But Death unfailing

Must strike the blow,

Then for this reason,
And for a season,

Let us be merry before we go!"

It is melancholy, doubtless, to retire, in the prime of life, from the whole wide world, into the narrow prison of a sick room. How much worse if that room be a wretched garret, with the naked tiles above and the bare boards below-no swinging bookshelf—not a penny colored print on the blank wall! And yet that forlorn attic is but the type of a more dreadful destitution, an unfurnished mind! The mother of Bloomfield used to say, that to encounter Old Age, Winter, and Poverty, was like meeting three giants; she might have added two more as huge and terrible, Sickness, and Ignorance-the last not the least of the Monster Evils; for it is he who affects pauperism with a deeper poverty-the beggary of the mind and

soul.

"I have said how unavailing is luxury when the body is distressed and the spirit faint. At such times, and at all times, we cannot but be deeply grieved at the conception of the converse of our own state, at the thought of the multitude of the poor suffering under privation, without the support and solace of great ideas. It is sad enough to think of them on a winter's night, aching with

tion of the horror when we think of the savage poor, who form so large a proportion of the hungerers-when we conceive of them suffering the privation of all good things at once-suffering shivering nakedness-without the respite or solace under the aching cold, the sinking hunger, the afforded by one inspiring or beguiling idea.

"I will not dwell on the reflection. A glimpse into this hell ought to suffice, (though we to whom imagery comes unbidden, and cannot be banished glimpses;) a glimpse ought to suffice to set all to at will, have to bear much more than occasional work to procure for every one of these sufferers, bread and warmth, if possible, and as soon as possible; but above everything, and without the loss of an hour, an entrance upon their spiritual birthright. Every man, and every woman, however wise and tender, appearing and designing to be, who for an hour helps to keep closed the entrance to the region of ideas-who stands between sufferers and great thoughts, (which are the angels of consolation sent by God to all to whom he has given souls,) are, in so far, ministers of hell, not themselves inflicting torment, but intercepting the influences which would assuage or overpower it. Let the plea be heard of us sufferers who know well the power of ideas-our plea for the poorthat, while we are contriving for all to be fed and cherished by food and fire, we may meanwhile kindle the immortal vitality within them, and give them that ethereal solace and sustenance which was meant to be shared by all, without money and without price.'

he will again be a perfect picture of health Never, then, tell a man, permanently sick, that when he has not the frame for it-nor hint to a sick woman, incurably smitten, that the seeds of her disease will flourish and flower into lilies and roses. Why deter them from providing suitable

pleasures and enjoyments to replace those delights of health and strength of which they must take leave forever? Why not rather forewarn them of the Lapland Winter to which they are destined, and to trim their lamps spiritual, for the darkness of a long seclusion? Tell them their doom; and let them prepare themselves for it, according to the Essays before us, so healthy in tone, though from a confirmed invalid-so wholesome and salutary,. though furnished from a Sick Room.

From Hood's Magazine. THE HAUNTED HOUSE; A ROMANCE.

BY MR. HOOD.

"A jolly place, said he, said he, in days of old,
But something ails it now: the spot is curst."
HARTLEAP WELL, BY WORDSWORTH.

PART I.

And in the weedy moat the heron, fond
Of solitude, alighted.

The moping heron, motionless and stiff,
That on a stone, as silently and stilly,
Stood, an apparent sentinel, as if
To guard the water-lily.

No sound was heard except, from far away,
The ringing of the Whitwall's shrilly laughter,

That Echo murmur'd after.

SOME dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Or, now and then, the chatter of the jay,
Unnatural and full of contradictions;
Yet others of our most romantic schemes
Are something more than fictions.

It might be only on enchanted ground;

It might be merely by a thought's expansion;
But in the spirit, or the flesh, I found
An old deserted mansion.

A residence for woman, child, and man,
A dwelling place-and yet no habitation;
A house but under some prodigious ban
Of excommunication.

Unhinged the iron gates half open hung,
Jarr'd by the gusty gales of many winters,
That from its crumbled pedestal had flung
One marble globe in splinters.

But Echo never mock'd the human tongue;
Some weighty crime, that Heaven could not pardon,
A secret curse on that old building hung,
And its deserted garden.

The beds were all untouch'd by hand or tool;
No footstep marked the damp and mossy gravel,
Each walk as green as is the mantled pool,
For want of human travel.

The vine unprun'd, and the neglected peach,
Droop'd from the wall with which they used to
grapple;

And on the canker'd tree, in easy reach,
Rotted the golden apple.

But awfully the truant shunn'd the ground,
The vagrant kept aloof, and daring poacher;
creature-In spite of gaps that thro' the fences round
Invited the encroacher.

No dog was at the threshold, great or small;
No pigeon on the roof-no household
No cat demurely dozing on the wall-
Not one domestic feature.

No human figure stirred, to go or come,
No face looked forth from shut or open casement;
No chimney smoked-there was no sign of home
From parapet to basement.

With shatter'd panes the grassy court was starr'd;
The time-worn coping-stone had tumbled after;
And thro' the ragged roof the sky shone, barr'd
With naked beam and rafter.

O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear;
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted!

The flow'r grew wild and rankly as the weed,
Roses with thistles struggled for espial,
And vagrant plants of parasitic breed
Had overgrown the dial.

But gay or gloomy, steadfast or infirm,

No heart was there to heed the hour's duration;
All times and tides were lost in one long term
Of stagnant desolation.

The wren had built within the porch, she found
Its quiet loneliness so sure and thorough;
And on the lawn-within its turfy mound-
The rabbit made his burrow.

The rabbit wild and gray, that flitted thro'

For over all there hung a cloud of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted!

The pear and quince lay squander'd on the grass;
The mould was purple with unheeded showers
Of bloomy plums-a wilderness it was
Of fruits, and weeds, and flowers!

The marigold amidst the nettles blew,
The gourd embraced the rose bush in its ramble,
The thistle and the stock together grew,
The holly-hock and bramble.

The bear-bine with the lilac interlac'd,
The sturdy burdock choked its slender neighbor,
The spicy pink. All tokens were effac'd
Of human care and labor.

The very yew formality had train'd
To such a rigid pyramidal stature,
For want of trimming had almost regain'd
The raggedness of nature.

The fountain was a-dry—neglect and time
Had marr'd the work of artisan and mason,
And efts and croaking frogs begot of slime,
Sprawl'd in the ruin'd bason.

The statue, fallen from its marble base,
Amidst the refuse leaves, and herbage rotten,

The shrubby clumps, and frisk'd, and sat, and Lay like the idol of some by-gone race,

vanish'd,

But leisurly and bold, as if he knew

His enemy was banish'd.

Its name and rites forgotten.

On ev'ry side the aspect was the same,
All ruin'd, desolate, forlorn, and savage:

The wary crow-the pheasant from the woods-No hand or foot within the precinct came

Lull'd by the still and everlasting sameness,
Close to the mansion, like domestic broods,
Fed with a 66
shocking tameness."

The coot was swimming in the reedy pond,
Beside the water-hen, so soon affrighted;

To rectify or ravage.

For over all there hung a cloud of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted!

Their souls were looking through their painted eyes And yet no gory stain was on the quilt-
With awful speculation.

The pillow in its place had slowly rotted:
The floor alone retained the trace of guilt,
Those boards obscurely spotted.

Obscurely spotted to the door, and thence
With mazy doubles to the grated casement-
Oh what a tale they told of fear intense,
Of horror and amazement!

What human creature in the dead of night
Had coursed like hunted hare that cruel distance?
Had sought the door, the window in his flight,
Striving for dear existence?

What shrieking spirit in that bloody room
Its mortal frame had violently quitted?—
Across the sunbeam, with a sudden gloom,
A ghostly shadow flitted.

Across the sunbeam, and along the wall,
But painted on the air so very dimly,
It hardly veiled the tapestry at all,
Or portrait frowning grimly.

Over all there hung the shadow of a fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted!

IT is impossible to divine for what reason all mention of the outbreak alluded to in the following letter has been suppressed in the daily papers of either kingdom; but whatever may have been the purpose of the journalists, the Rebellion described is, in the phrase of the Times, "A Great Fact." "To Miss*

Shrewsbury, Shropshire. "MY DEAR JANE,-This cums hopin your well and comfortable, which is more then I am or ever hope to be in this distracted country. Lord forgive me for repinin. But I wish I had married any wheres xcept to the Emerald Jem. My nerves is litterally shook to peaces, for won mite as well xpect to

sleep in Sow Ameriky without Rockin by earth-talk of goin to the Skaffold as he will sum day quakes, as to live in Ireland without Agitashuns. without his Hod-& crackin every Crown in the Its always in Convulshuns like a teething Babby! Wurld for the cause of Irish poverty he says is "Sich mobbins & publick meetins, & violent soverins raining over it, in short sich speeches as speechifyins witch encourages murderin English, must be Ketchd up, for State Persecutions, if & marchins & counter marchins, & bonfires with-luckly there wasnt so menny all talking in the out Guys to them-& blowin Horns, and Irish same stile, for Strong languige is one of their thretnin letters from men as cant rite to men as Weaknesses. And witch is why they praps want cant read. Sich squablings between Repeelers to have a Parliment of their own, for as to the & No Repeelers, & Romans & Protestants, and Hous of Communs they say theres nothin Irish exclusiv dealin, not like Mrs. Mullins at wist as about it xcept a Speaker as dont speak. And used to deal all the Honners to herself, but not so I supose they will have a Parliment in Collige byin nuthin from noboddy except your own per- Green, or else the Fifteen Akers witch is a better swashun. Sich searchin for Harms & many fac- Place to pair off in. For you know theyre dredful terin Pikes and Repeel Wardins, & callin hard Duelists & always so reddy for challengin, if you names, big Beggers, & mity big liers, and a surplus only look hard at a deaf Irishman he considders it of rough uns, and a lion in blood Langwage & a callin out. Not but wat theyre a generus Pepel religun, and as they've bilt a grate Hall for Irish otherways as well as in fighting and would give Concilliashun there will be fighten of course. In away their last Rap in the wurld wether in munny witch case Lord help us, for when it comes to or a stick, & whether a stick with a stick or with Battle royal, an Irish Justis always throws up his pike. And I must say very gallant to the sects, commission & his Hat along with it rather then even poor Thady when he's overcum by his Licker keep the peace! O Jane never never never marry and sees dubble, Oh Nelly, says he, its a trate into Ireland. Singleness is better than Dublin. entirely it is to see two of your swate purty Faces "Thank goodness I'me not a Saxon but from insted of one. Witch is all very well in the way Shropsheer, or my days wouldn't be long in the of complementin but whats it all Wuth when it Land. What the Saxons has dun to displease the cums to Pollyticks if he wants to repuddiate me like Irish xcept desertin from Boney at the Battle of an Amerikan Det, and repeel all Unions between Lipsick is more then I know, but they are as bitter the English & the Irish. But a Marrige is a Maras Bark agin the hole race. This very blessid rige, & nayther him nor Mister O Daniel O Connel mornin there was poor Patrick Maguire the tailor with Mr. Ray and Mr. Steel into the Bargin can was shillallid amost into nine parts of a man for get quit of three Axes & the Halter. Witch reonly havin a peace of cloth in his winder marked minds me of the prejudis agin English males, I Saxony superfine. Its shockin to stir up sich mean to say the Crole Coaches. Wat I suspects nashunal anymosities between cristians. For my they wants is busses to jine on to their Blunders. own part altho I am a English woman I dont hate For theres shockin reports about a Genral risin Ireland and indeed was once quite attached to the with the lark some mornin in the disturbed distrix. country being stuck fast up to my middle in a Bog. I supose the Peep o'day Boys, & sum plot gettin "Then theres party cullers. Sum of them up. There certainly has been seizers of arms, & runnin as mad at Orange as a bull at scarlet, sum talk of Rebecca cummin over to giv lessons in because King William of Orange was a Dutchman levellin 'Pikes, & they do say theres an unkommun and wanted to introduce Hollands instid of Wisky. stickin of Pigs by way of practisin for civil War. And so they must upset poor Widder Grady & her Likewise Rock letters, & as to land you mite as baskit into the gutter for sellin Oranges instied well take Leasis of the Goodwin Sands. There is of Greens & others agin cant abide Green-so you poor Patrick Dolan, but I must call him Pat in cant even suit your complexion xcept by goin in futer for they've burnt his rick. Well he's as Newtral Tint like a Quaker. But that cums of good as killd, for he's a prescribed man. And all leaving my own country for an Island surrounded for wat? Why for havin a cow as wouldn't toss as I may say with hot Warter and witch sum up with the Procter for the Tithes. To be shure mornin I may get up and find repeeled off to the as Thady says there's a Commisshun appinted to Continent and a next to France. Or wats wus enquire how Irishmen hold their own, But wat's simpathisin off to Ameriky. But before sich a repeel I hope I shall be Repeeld to my grave! As may be I may be eithir pitch forkt to deth by a Protistant rebel or shot by a Poppish one with a barrelful of slugs. But who can expect behaving as armless as Doves as Doctor Watts says in a country where a Pigeon House means a place full of sogers.

"As to my Husband insted of bein a cumfit in my allarms hes quite the Reverse, wat with his repeel pollytics & his Irish blud which is so easy set up he never goes out to spend an evenin & meet his frends but I look to see him cum home with a black eye or a pugnashus Nose,—if he ant sent sudden to heaven with a holy Head. Witch is rather alarmin for if thats his Friendship wat will his love be if it ever cums to Blows. Praps its sumthing in the soil for they do say you may no a real Irish tater by its havin black eyes. How sumever fighten & shillallyin is meat & drink to the Natives. But its his pollyticks as scars me out of my sensis. O if you could only hear him

the use of a Commisshun to inquire out wat we all know beforehand namely that if so be every farmer in Ireland gives up his farm, the only Tennant left will be the Lord Left-tenant.

"What a friteful state of Things! Propperty not safe nor life nayther for if your killd the murderer always gets an Irish allibi witch is being in two other Places at the time. No law-no justis-no nothing. And in such an age as ours for all sorts of larning. Looking from England at Ireland, who would believe he sees the Eighteenth sentry enlitened by Gas! But sumboddy's cumSergent Flanigan.

"O Jane, what news for the poor Ile of Hearin! I ort to say hes a Sergent in the Cunstabulabulary Force and as sich knows everything-& he says there's a breaking out at sum place that begins with Killin; its only a small Villige, but you know very bad erupshuns begins with little spots. I was too flurrid to ketch the particlers, but theres a reglar rebellion, & Lord nose how many thowsand Irish all harmed with sithes a-going to take the