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he came to a plain marble slab almost overgrown with grass. A strange curiosity seized him; he knelt down and parted the rank weeds which overshadowed it; a sunbeam at that moment darted precisely on the place, and he saw, carved in legible German-text, the simple inscription" Julia.” He was indescribably affected; and yet he felt a melancholy pleasure in thinking that she had too late become sensible of his merits, and pined into the grave in consequence of his absence. While indulging in this train of reflection, a troop of little boys, attracted by the extraordinary spectacle of a man upon his kness in a church-yard, began to gather round, shouting and pelting him with earth and small pebbles. He arose to reprimand them ; but there having been a heavy shower of rain, and he having white duck trowsers on, the effect of his kneeling, upon his clothes, can, like a young heroine's feelings, be more easily imagined than described. He instantly, therefore, became an object of universal observation, and the little boys shouted and pelted more than ever. Phelps was exasperated beyond measure; he seized one of the young miscreants, shook him well, and threatened the most dreadful corporeal chastisement if he did not desist.

<< Hurrah for Jackson !** exclaimed the young rebel, nothing daunted.

“Hurrah for Jackson !" chimed in his companions in evil-doing. This pointed, though unintentional allusion to his rival, at once unnerved Phelps—recollections of former insults and injuries came over him, and he strode from the burialground, the boys hurraing all the while at his coat. tail ; when lo! who should be seen issuing from the church porch but Mr. Raphael Jackson himself with his own Julia, now Mrs. Jackson, hanging on his arm! This was too much—so then it appeared she had not pined away in his absence-she had not died--and he had been kneeling by the side of some one else's Julia! They passed him without speaking, he muttered dreadful imprecations to himself, and bent his way down Wall-street.

He is now only the wreck of his former self, though he is more corpulent than he was wont to be, yet it is not a healthy corpulency; and his apparel is the extreme of what is generally denominated “ seedy." Yet amid this moral and physical desolation some traces of identity are yet preserved -some glimmerings of what once was Phelps !

* A common political cry about this time with young republi

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There is still that peculiar strut in his walk, and he still wears his hat knowingly adjusted on one side of his head; but he drinks like a fish, talks politics incessantly, and his shirt-frill is much bedaubed with snuff. What will be his final fate depends upon ulterior circumstances ; at present it is enveloped in the mists and darkness of futurity.

SPRING

Lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.- Song of Solomon, chap. II.

Every year, all the periodicals, in every city, in every country of the earth, have something to say upon the subject of spring, and have had something to say since time was, or at least, since periodicals were born, and will continue to have something to say until time shall cease to be. It is, in all respects, a most prolific theme, and there is no more chance of exhausting it, than of exhausting our kind mother earth of grass, leaves, and flowers, and the never-dying vegetative principle. The reason is obvious enough: last year's grass, and leaves, and flowers are dead and past away-their freshness and fragrance are forgotten, and their beauty is remembered no more ; so it is with the essays, reflections, songs, and sonnets that sprang into life in the spring of eighteen hundred and

twenty-nine--they also have passed away, and their sweet thoughts and pretty sayings are likewise remembered no more ; but as last year's vegetation fell to the earth and became incorporated with it only to be reproduced again in forms of fresh brilliancy and beauty, so do the thoughts and images of former writers assume a new shape, and bear the impress of the present time by appearing in all magazines and newspapers, daily, weekly, and inonthly, for the year eighteen hundred and thirty. And there is no plagiarism in all this; it is merely, as Puff says, “two people happening to think of the same idea, only one hit upon it before the other that's all.” Indeed, who would think of plagiarism on such an exhaustless subject as spring? Why a thousand thoughts and images that have lain dormant in the mind start into life at the mere mention of the word. As the fresh April breeze, laden with healthful fragrance, blows upon you, it becomes a sort of natural impulse to vent your feelings either by pen or speech. You look back upon the snow, and fog, and sharp unfeeling winds of winter as upon a desolate waste over which you have trodden, and fancy, as you see nature putting on her youthful gay attire, that you are entering into another and better state of existence; forgetful that though her spring may be

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