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threw the taxed tea into Boston harbor. It was a moment of humiliation and indignant grief, when passing by his monument, we compared the taxes on tea and sugar of his day, with that despotic land tax, that slave-breeding incumbrance, that Shylock mortgage which the founders of our Constitution imposed upon every square inch of New England, in the terms of the "bond."

We have now neither time nor space to tell the story of that young fugitive. We wish he might tell it himself upon every hearthstone of New England. We wish no human heart a needless unpleasant emotion; but we would that every child in this "land of the free" might see a slave,-a being that OWNS A GOD, yet owned, and bound, and beat, and sold by man. We would have the rising genera

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tion well instructed in the terms of the bond," and a few personal illustrations of the condition which it "secures" might be a service in defining their path of duty. They will soon enter upon this goodly heritage; and shall we give it over into their hands encumbered with this iniquitous entailment in favor of slavery? No! if there be wealth enough in all New England's jewels-in the cabinet of her great deeds of virtue and patriotism-let us lift this bloody mortgage from one square acre of her soil, whereupon the hunted slave may say, "I thank my God that I too am at last a Man!" When trembling and panting, he struck his foot on that consecrated spot, then the chase should cease, though his master and his dogs were at his heels. That English acre in New England should be another Canada for the fugitive bondman. He should carry a handful of its soil in his bosom as a certificate, honored throughout the world, that he was FREE.

A CHRISTMAS TALE.

BY RICHARD MONKTON MILNES.

The windows and the garden door,
Must now be closed for night,
And you, my little girl, no more

Can watch the snow-flakes white
Fall, like a silver net, before

The face of dying light.

Draw down the curtains every fold,
Let not a gap let in the cold,
Bring your low seat toward the fire,
And you shall have your heart's desire;
A story of that favorite book,
In which you often steal a look,
Regretful not to understand
Words of a distant time and land ;-
That small square book that seems so old
In tawny white and faded gold,

And which I could not leave to-day,
Even with the snow and you to play.

It was on such a night as this,
Six hundred years ago,
The wind as loud and pitiless,

As loaded with the snow,

A night when you might start to meet
A friend in an accustomed street,
That a lone child went up and down
The pathways of an ancient town-
A little child, just such as you,
With eyes, though clouded, just as blue,
With just such long fine golden hair,
But wet and rough for want of care,
And just such tender tottering feet
Bare to the cold and stony street.
Alone! this fragile human flower,
Alone at this unsightly hour,
A playful, joyful, peaceful form,
A creature of delight,
Become companion of the storm,

And phantom of the night!
No gentler thing is near,-in vain
Its warm tears meet the frozen rain,
No watchful ears await its cries
On every name that well supplies
The childly nature with a sense
Of love and care and confidence;
It looks before, it looks behind,
And staggers with the weighty wind,
Till, terror overpowering grief,
And feeble as the Autumn leaf,
It passes down the tide of air,

It knows not, thinks not, how or where.

Beneath a carven porch, before
An iron-belted oaken door,

The tempest drives the cowering child,
And rages on as hard and wild,
This is not shelter, though the sleet
Strikes heavier in the open street,
For, to that infant ear, a din
Of festive merriment within
Comes, by the contrast, sadder far
Than all the outer windy war,
With something cruel, something curst,
In each repeated laughter-burst;
The thread of constant cheerful light,
Drawn through a crevice on the sight,
Tells it of heat it cannot feel,

And all the fire.side bliss
That home's dear portrals can reveal
On such a night as this.

How can those hands so small and frail,
Empassioned as they will, avail
Against that banded wall of wood

Standing in senseless hardihood

Between the warmth and love and mirth,
The comforts of the living earth,
And the lorn creature shivering there,
The plaything of the savage air?

We would not, of our own good will,
Believe in so much strength of ill,
Believe that life and sense are given
To any being under heaven,
Only to weep and suffer thus,

To suffer without sin,

What would be for the worst of us

A bitter discipline.

Yet now the tiny hands no more
Are striking that unfeeling door;
Folded and quietly they rest,
As on a cherub's marble breast;
And from the guileless lips of wo
Are passing words confused and low,
Remembered fragments of a prayer,
Learnt and repeated otherwhere,
With the blue summer overhead,
On a sweet mother's knee,
Beside the downy cradle-bed,
But always happily.

Though for those holy words the storm
Relaxes not its angry form,
The child no longer stands alone
Upon th' inhospitable stone:

There now are two,-one to the other
Like as a brother to twin-brother,
But the new comer has an air
Of something wonderful and rare,
Something divinely calm and mild,
Something beyond a human child;

His eyes came through the thickening night,
With a soft planetary light,

And from his hair there falls below
A radiance on the drifting snow,
And his untarnish'd childly bloom
Seems but the brighter for the gloom.

See what a smile of gentle grace
Expatiates slowly o'er his face!
As, with a mien of soft command,
He takes that numb'd and squalid hand,
And with a voice of simple joy
And greeting as from boy to boy;
He speaks What do you at this door?
Why called you not on me before?
What like you best? that I should break
This sturdy barrier for your sake,
And let you in that you may share
The warmth and joy and cheerful fare;
Or will you trust to me alone,
And heeding not the windy moan
Nor the cold rain nor lightning brand,
Go forward with me, hand in hand?

RES

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Within this house, if e'er on earthLIFOR

You will find love and peace and mirth;"
And there may rest for many a day,
While I am on mine open way;

And should your heart to me incline,
When I am gone,

Take you this little cross of mine
To lean upon,

And sitting out what path you will,
Careless of your own strength and skill,
You soon will find me; only say,
What wish you most to do to-day?"

The child looks out into the night,
With gaze of pain and pale affright,
Then turns an eye of keen desire
On the thin gleam of inward fire,
Then rests a long and silent while,
Upon that brother's glorious smile.
You've seen the subtle magnet draw
The iron by its hidden law,

So seems that smile to lure along
The child from an enclosing throng
Of fears and fancies undefined,
And to one passion fix its mind,—
Till every struggling doubt to check
And give to love its due,

It casts its arms about his neck,

And cries "With you, with you,—
For you have sung me many a song,
Like mine own mother's, all night long,
And you have play'd with me in dreams,
Along the walks, beside the streams,
Of Paradise- the bless'd bowers,
Where what men call the stars are flowers,
And what to them looks deep and blue
Is but a veil which we saw through,
Into the garden without end,
Where you the angel-children tend;
So that they asked me when I woke,
Where I had been, to whom I spoke,
What I was doing there, to seem
So heavenly-happy in my dream?
Oh! take me, take me there again,
Out of the cold and wind and rain,
Out of this dark and cruel town,
Whose houses on the orphan frown;
Bear me the thundering clouds above
To the safe kingdom of your love;
Of if you will not, I can go

With you barefooted through the snow;
I shall not feel the bitter blast,
If you will take me home at last."

Three kisses on its dead-cold cheeks,
Three on its bloodless brow,
And a clear answering music speaks,
"Sweet brother! come there now:
It shall be so; there is no dread

Within the auriole of mine head;
This hand in yours, this living hand,
Can all the world of cold withstand,
And though so small is strong to lift
Your feet above the thickest drift;
The wind that round you raged and broke
Shall fold around us like a cloak,
And we shall reach that garden soon,
Without the guide of Sun or Moon."

So down the mansions slippery stair,
Into the midnight weather,

Pass, as if sorrow never were,

The weak and strong together. This was the night before the morn On which the Hope of Man was born, And long ere dawn can claim the sky, The tempest rolls subservient by; While bells on all sides sing and say, How Christ the child was born to-day; Free as the sun's in June, the rays Mix merry with the Yuhl-log's blaze; Some butterflies of snow may float Down slowly, glistening in the mote, But crystal-leaved and fruited trees Scarce lose a jewel in the breeze; Frost-diamonds twinkle on the grass, Transformed from pearly dew, And silver flowers encrust the glass, Which gardens never knew. The inmates of the house, before Whose iron-fended heedless door, The children of our nightly tale Were standing, rise refreshed and hale, And run, as if a race to win, To let the Christmas morning in. They find upon the threshold stone, A little child just like their own; Asleep, it seems, but when the head Is raised, it sleeps as sleep the dead The fatal point had touched it, while The lips had just begun a smile, The forehead 'mid the matted tresses A perfect painless end expresses, And, unconvuls'd, the hands may wear The posture more of thanks than prayer. They tend it straight in wondering grief, And when all skill brings no relief, They bear it onward in its smile, Up the Cathedral's central aisle : There, soon as Priests and People heard How the thing was, they speak not word, But take the usual image meant The blessed babe to represent, Forth from its cradle, and instead Lay down that silent mortal head. Nor incense cloud and anthem sound Arise the beauteous body round;

Softly the carol chant is sung,
Softly the mirthful peal is rung,
And, when the solemn duties end,
With tapers earnest troops attend
The gentle corpse, nor cease to sing,
Till, by an almond tree,

They bury it, that the flowers of spring
May o'er it soonest be.

UNWRITTEN MUSIC.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

TICKLER. I will accompany you on the poker and tongs.

SHEPHERD.-I hae nae objections-for you've not only a sowl for music, sir, but a genius too, and the twa dinna always gang thegither-mony a mon haein' as fine an ear for tunes, as the starnies on a dewy nicht, that listen to the grass growin' roun' the vernal prim roses, and yet na able to play on ony instrument-on even the flute-let abee the poker and tangs. NOCTES AMBROSIANE.

I am not known as a lover of music. I seldom praise the player upon an instrument, or the singer of song. I stand aside if I listen, and I keep the mea sure in my heart without beating it audibly with my foot, or moving my head visibly in a practised abstraction. There are times when I do not listen at all; and it may be that the mood is not on me, or that the spell is mastered by Beauty, or that I hear a human voice, whose every whisper is sweeter than all. There are some who are said to have a passion for music, and they will turn away at the beginning of a song, though it be only a child's lesson, and leave gazing on an eye that was, perhaps, like shaded water, or the forehead of a beautiful woman, or the lip of a young girl, to listen. I cannot boast that my love of music is so strong. I confess that there are things I know that are often an overcharm, tho' not always; and I would not give up my slavery to their power, if I might be believed to have gone mad at an opera, or have my "bravo" the signal for the applause of a city.

There is unwritten Music. The world is full of it. I hear it every hour that I wake, and my wak ing sense is surpassed sometimes by my sleepingthough that is a mystery. There is no sound of sim. ple nature that is not Music. It is all Heaven's work, and so harmony. You may mingle and divide, and strengthen the passages of its great anthem, and and it is still melody-melody. The winds of summer blow over the waterfalls and the brooks, and bring their voices to your ear as if their sweetness was linked by an accurate finger; yet the wind is but a fitful player; and you may go out when the tempest is up, and hear the strong trees moaning as they lean before it, and the long grass hissing as it

sweeps through, and its own solemn monotony over, friends comfort me and smile pleasantly on me, and all-and the dimple of that same brook, and the feel willing that I should be released from sorrow, waterfall's unaltered bass, shall still reach you in and perplexity, and disease, and go up, now that my the intervals of its power, as much in harmony as race was finished, joyfully to my reward. And if before, and as much a part of its perfect and perpetu- it be allotted to me, as I pray it will, to die in the al hymn. There is no accident of Nature's causing summer time, I would be borne out into the open which can bring in discord. The loosened rock may sky, and have my pillow lifted that I might see the fall into the abyss, and the overblown tree rush glory of the setting sun, and pass away, like him, down through the branches of the wood, and the with undiminished light, to another world. thunder peal awfully in the sky; and, sudden and violent as these changes seem, their tumult goes up with the sound of wind and water; and the exquisite ear of the musician can detect no jar.

I have read somewhere of a custom in the Highlands, which, in connection with the principle it involves, is exceedingly beautiful. It is believed that, to the ear of the dying-which just before death becomes always exquisitely acute-the perfect harmony of the voices of nature is so ravishing as to make him forget his suffering, and die gently, like one in a pleasant trance. And so when the last moment approaches, they take him from the close shieling, and bear him out into the open sky, that he may hear the familiar rushing of the streams, I can believe that it is not superstition. I do not think we know how exquisitely nature's many voices are attuned to harmony, and to each other. The old philosopher we read of might not have been dreaming when he discovered that the order of the sky was a scroll of written music, and that two stars-which are said to Lave appeared centuries after his death in the very places he mentioned-were wanting to complete the harmony. We know how wonderful are the phenomena of color; how strangely like consummate art the strongest dyes are blended in the plumage of birds, and the cups of flowers; so that to the practised eye of the painter the harmony is inimitably perfect. It is natural to suppose every part of the universe equally perfect, and it is a glorious and elevating thought, that the stars of heaven are moving on continually to music, and that the sounds we daily listen to are but a part of a melody that reaches to the very centre of heaven's illimitable spheres.

Pardon me a digression here, reader. Aside from the intention of the custom just alluded to, there is something delightful in the thought of thus dying in the open air. I had always less horror of death than of its ordinary gloomy circumstances. There is something unnatural in the painful and extravagant sympathy with which the dying are surrounded. It is not such a gloomy thing to die. The world has pleasant places, and I would hear in my last hour the voice and the birds, and the chance music I may have loved; but better music, and voices of more ravishing sweetness, and far pleasanter places, are found in heaven, and I cannot feel that it is well or natural to oppress the dying with the distressing wretchedness of common sorrow. I would be let go cheerfully from the world. I would have my

It is not mere poetry to talk of the voices of summer." It is the day time of the year, and its myriad influences are audibly at work. Even at night you may lay your ear to the ground, and hear that faintest of murmurs, the sound of growing things. I used to think when I was a child that it was fairy music. If you have been used to rising early, you have not forgotten how the stillness of the night seems increased by the timid note of the first bird. It is the only time when I would lay a finger on the lip of nature-the deep hush is so very solemn. By and by, however, the birds are all up, and the peculiar holiness of the hour declines, but what a world of music does the world shine on! the deep lowing of the cattle blending in with the capricious warble of a thousand of heaven's happy creatures, and the stir of industry coming on the air like the under tones of a choir, and the voice of man, heard in the distance over all, like a singer among instruments, giving them meaning and language! And then, if your ear is delicate, you have minded all these sounds grow softer and sweeter, as the exhalations of the dew floated up, and the vibrations loosened in the thin air.

You should go out some morning in June and listen to the notes of the birds. They express far more than our own, the characters of their owners. From the scream of the vulture and the eagle, to the low cooing of the dove, they are all modified by their habits of support, and their consequent dispositions. With the small birds the voice appears to be but an outpouring of gladness, and it is a pleasure to see that without one articulate word it is so sweet a gift to them; it seems a necessary vent to their joy of existence, and I believe in my heart that a dumb bird would die of its imprisoned fulness.

Nature seems never so utterly still to me as in the depths of a summer afternoon. The heat has driven in the birds, and the leaves hang motionless on the trees, and no creature has the heart, in that faint sultriness, to utter a sound. The snake sleeps on the rock, and the frog lies breathing in the pool, and even the murmur that is heard at night is inaudible, for the herbage droops beneath the sun, and the seed has no strength to burst its covering. The world is still, and the pulses beat languidly. It is a time for sleep.

But if you would hear one of Nature's most varied and delicate harmonies, lie down in the edge of the wood when the evening breeze begins to stir, and

listen to its coming. It touches first the silver foliage of the birch, and the slightly hung leaves, at its merest breath, will lift and rustle like a thousand tiny wings, and then it creeps up to the tall fir, and the fine tassels send out a sound like a low whisper, and as the oak feels its influence, the thick leaves stir heavily, and a deep tone comes suddenly out like the echo of a far off bassoon. They are all wind-harps of different power, and as the breeze strengthens and sweeps equally over them all, their united harmony has a wonderful grandeur and beauty.

| your mind is not idle. It realizes my dream of another world, where music is intuitive like a thought, and comes only when it is remembered.

And the frost, too, has a melodious " ministry." You will hear its crystals shoot in the dead of a clear night, as if the moonbeams were splintering like arrows on the ground; and you listen to it the more earnestly that it is the going on of one the most cunning and beautiful of nature's deep mysteries. I know nothing so wonderful as the shooting of a crystal. Heaven has hidden its principle as yet from the inquisitive eye of the philosopher, and we must be content to gaze on its exquisite beauty, and listen in mute wonder to the noise of its invisible workmanship. It is too fine a knowledge for us. We shall comprehend it when we know how the "morning stars sang together."

Then what is more soothing than the dropping of the rain? You should have slept in a garret to know how it can lull and bring dreams. How I have lain, when a boy, and listened to the fitful patter of the large drops upon the roof, and held my breath as it grew fainter and fainter, till it ceased utterly, and I heard You would hardly look for music in the drearinothing but the rushing of the strong gust and the ness of the early winter. But before the keener rattling of the panes. I used to say over my pray-frosts set in, and while the warm winds are yet stealers and think of the apples I had stolen then! But were you ever out fishing upon a lake, in a smart shower? It is like the playing of musical glasses. The drops ring out with a clear, bell-like tinkle, following each other sometimes so closely that it resembles the winding of a distant horn; and then, in the momentary intervals, the bursting of the thousand tiny bubbles comes stealthily on your ear, more like the recollection of a sound than a distinct murmur. Not that I fish; I was ever a milky-hearted boy, and had a foolish notion that there was pain in the restless death of those panting and beautiful creatures; but I loved to go out with the old men when the day set in with rain, and lie dreamily over the gunwale listening to the changes of which I have spoken. It had a quieting effect on my temper, and stilled for awhile the uneasiness of that vague longing that is like a fever at a boy's heart.

There is a melancholy music in Autumn. The leaves float sadly about with a peculiar look of desolateness, wavering capriciously in the wind, and falling with a just andible sound that is a very sigh for its sadness. And then, when the breeze is fresher -though the early autumn months are mostly still they are swept on with a cheerless rustle over the naked harvest fields and about in the eddies of the blast; and though I have sometimes, in the glow of exercise, felt my life securer in the triumph of the brave contrast, yet in the chill of evening, or when any sickness of mind or body was upon me, the moaning of those withered leaves has pressed down my heart like a sorrow, and the cheerful fire and the voices of my many sisters might scarce remove it. Then, for the music of Winter. I love to listen to the falling of the snow. It is an unobstrusive and sweet music. You may temper your heart to the serenest mood by its low murmur. It is that kind of music that only intrudes upon your ear when your thoughts come languidly. You need not hear it if

The

ing back occasionally, like regrets of the departed
summer, there will come a soft rain or a heavy
mist; and, when the north winds return, there will be
drops suspended like ear-ring jewels between the
filaments of the cedar tassels and in the feathery
edges of the dark green hemlocks, and, if the clear-
ing up is not followed by a heavy wind, they will all
be frozen in their places like well-set gems.
next morning the warm sun comes out, and by the
middle of the calm, dazzling forenoon, they are all
loosened from the close touch which sustains them,
and will drop at the lightest motion. If you go along
upon the south side of the wood at that hour, you
will hear music. The dry foliage of the summer's
shedding is scattered over the ground, and the hard
round drops ring out clearly and distinctly as
they are shaken down with the stirring of the
breeze. It is something like the running of deep
and rapid water, only more fitful and merrier; but
to one who goes out in nature with his heart open, it
is a pleasant music, and, in contrast with the stern
character of the season, delightful.

Winter has many other sounds that give pleasure to the seeker for hidden sweetness; but they are too rare and accidental to be described distinctly. The brooks have a sullen and muffled murmur under their frozen surface; the ice in the distant river heaves up with the swell of the current and falls again to the bank with a prolonged echo, and the woodman's axe rings cheerfully out from the bosom of the unrobed forest. These are, at best, however, but melancholy sounds, and, like all that meets the eye in that cheerless season, they but drive in the heart upon itself. I believe it is so ordered in heaven's wisdom. We forget ourselves in the enticement of the sweet summer. Its music and its loveliness win away the scenes that link up the affections, and we need a hand to turn us back tenderly, and hide from us the outward idols in whose wor

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