make me forget that life had troubles in store for me. I yielded to the fascination of the present hour, and felt thankful for the capacity and means of such happiness, and had no concern but the painful fear that my own slight abilities did not atone for the greater pleasure they would have found in each other's society, had I been a less constant visitor. But the benevolent and refined, although they are the most penetrating critics, are not so difficult to please as many of less delicacy; and the pleasure of conferring happiness is to them a reward which relieves them from the suffering that a tedious person inflicts upon those whom he visits too liberally.

I look back upon that parting hour-upon that refined and beautiful woman, and that faultless man; they seem now before me with almost the distinctness of actual vision; I almost hear their voices; and I dare not covet more than this indelible remembrance of a blessing, briefly accorded to me, I sometimes believe, to draw me onward in that way of happiness which reason had pointed out, but worldly passions had restrained me from pursuing. Could I but be assured that the unalloyed veneration and affection which I still feel, with undiminished fervor for them, had any corresponding regard for me, in their minds, I could have no more forcible encouragement to obey the dictates of conscience pure reason.

and

I often had letters from them. They cheered the declining days of a father who was beloved by them; and who, in their society, must have found a peace and contentment that few enjoy. He still survives; and they still devote themselves to him.

Many times, not from them, but from those who know them, and were aware that I also was so fortunate, I have heard that Julia was to be married to men of celebrity, and fortune, and all desirable qualities. I always shook my head. While her father lives, I do not believe she will desert him, or share with another the constant watchful attention which she wishes to bestow wholly upon him.

And what has she done? has she written a book, reared a family, or helped reformers to meliorate the condition of mankind? No such thing. All she does is to attend to the happiness of her relatives and friends, to cheer the unhappy, to inspire the faltering, to refine and spiritualize all whom Providence places in her way. All this she does from that portion of love which is contradistinguished from covetousness; or if, from demerit in the object, this motive ever fails, then from confirmed principle, and breeding, that veils its indifference or aversion, she still bestows the light of her pure mind even upon the least deserving, whenever she meets them in society.

I fear that no mortal is perfect. Even Julia, I

have sometimes been forced to think, would be better, if she would get up reform societies, and scold about the depravity of the age. But, dear Julia, this criticism does not mean that my devotion to you is not as full as my spiritual development can make it ; though you may not be all that the wise could wish, for me you have enough, yea, more than I dare to covet, of all that is pure in heart and mind.

And this brief sketch, veiled by a fictitious name, is all, it may be, that posterity will find on record, about one whose influence, with no trumpets and newspapers to proclaim it, has done more to change the characters of several men, than all the combined influence of learning and worldly prudence, and conscience besides.

THE PEARLS IN THE DESERT.

BY JAMES LUMBARD.

ROAMING o'er the trackless desert,
Once an Arab lost his way;
Languid grew his heart and footstep,
With the burning sands all day.

Night came on, and still he wandered, Till his strength was nearly spent, When at last he saw a cistern,

Which the Pilgrim bands frequent.

As he reached the cooling fountain,
Where the worn and weary drink,
A sudden hope his soul illumined,
For a sack lay on the brink.

"God be praised!" he said, and quickly Caught the treasure in his arms;

"Food to one who long has fasted, Has a world of potent charms."

With this thought the bag he opens,
While his brain excited whirls,
Sees the contents, and despairing,

Cries, "alas! they are but pearls!"

Many on life's arid desert,
Find the specious bauble, gold,
Fondly deeming it embodies

Every comfort earth can hold.

But when higher wants assail them, Wants above our lower world's, They discover in their coffers Nothing but insensate pearls.

Like the apples which in brightness Every other fruit eclipse, Tempting ever, but when tasted,

Turn to ashes on their lips!