whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy. Aye, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited; every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never-never -never return. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this, thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth, be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. -Washington Irving. BROKEN HEARTS. His Man is the creature of interest and ambition. nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world; it is there her ambition strives for empire; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless, for it is a bankruptcy of her heart. To a man, the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter pangs; it wounds some feelings of tenderness-it blasts some prospects of felicity; but he is an active being; he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure; or, if the scene of disappointment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and taking, as it were, the wings of the morning, can "fly to the uttermost part of the earth, and be at rest." But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and a meditative life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? Her lot is to be wooed and won; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. How many bright eyes grow dim-how many soft cheeks grow pale-how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so it is the nature of woman to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With her the desire of the heart has failed. The great charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is broken; the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams; "dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury. Look for her, after a little while, and you will find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that one who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty should so speedily be brought down to "darkness and the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indispo sition, that laid her low; but no one knows of the mental malady that previously sapped her strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, until, wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay. -Washington Irving. THE DUTCHMAN'S SERENADE. Vake up, my schveet! Vake up, my lofe! Der shtreet dot's kinder dampy vet, O my lofe! my lofely lofe! Vell, anyvay, obe loose your ear, O lady! vake! Get vake! Und hear der tale I'll tell; Oh! you vot's schleepin' sound ub dhere Your plack eyes dhem don't shine (Yes, hurry ub und voke ub quick, My schveet imbatience, lofe, I'm singing schveetly (dhere, py Jinks! O putiful, schveet maid! Oh! vill she efer voke? Der moon is mooning-(Jimminy! dhere Oh! say, old schleeby head! I'll holler now und I don't care I say, you schleeby, vake! Vake oud! Vake loose! Vake ub! O cracious! do vake ub! Dot girl she schleebed-dot rain it rained THE LAST HYMN. The sacred day was ending in a village by the sea; And they rose to face the sunset in the golden glowing west, But they looked across the waters, and a storm was raging there; And, alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed! Sad and anxious were the people, on that rocky coast of Wales, Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling fearful tales, When the sea had spent its passion, and should cast upon the shore Tangled wreck and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore. With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strained her eyes, And she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise. Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach. Oh, for power to cross the waters and the perishing to reach! Helpless hands were wrung for sorrow; tender hearts grew cold with dread, And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal rock-shore sped. "She has parted in the middle! Oh, the half of her goes down! God have mercy! is his heaven far to seek for those who drown?" Lo! when next the white shocked faces looked with terror on the sea, Only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be. Nearer the trembling watchers came the wreck across the wave, And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could save. "Could we send him a short message! Here's a trumpet. Shout away." 'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say. Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah, no! So he shouted through the trumpet, "Look to Jesus. Can you hear?" And "Ay, ay, sir!" rang the answer o'er the waters, loud and clear. Then they listened: "He is singing 'Jesus, Lover of my soul."" And the winds brought back the echo, "While the nearer waters roll." Strange, indeed, it was to hear him, “Till the storm of life is past," Singing bravely from the waters. 'Oh, receive my soul at last!" 66 He could have no other refuge. "Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; Leave, ah! leave me not"-the singer dropped at last into the sea. And the watchers, looking homeward through their eyes by tears made dim, Said, "He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn." THE WATER-MILL. Oh! listen to the water-mill, through all the live-long day, |