ing her hands, and beating her breast, she cried out: Harry! my dear Harry! where are you? Oh, they have killed him! Would to God they had killed me, too!'

'This was enough. The door of the old clock flew open; Harry jumped out; and with one bound, Mary was in his arms. Many were the kisses he imprinted on her lips. So absorbing was his happiness, that Harry entirely forgot his parents, who began to grow tired of their imprisonment. These released, they went out in search of others who might have escaped. A few were found; but the most joyful sight, was a company of English soldiers, who had come to remain a few weeks at the settlement. Among them was a chaplain, and, even before the dead were buried, the two lovers were united in marriage. But the clock is striking nine, boy; it is time for you to go to bed.'

But what was Harry's other name, grandfather?'

Never mind to-night; ask me to-morrow.'

'But I long to know now; do tell me, grandfather!'

No, no; it is nine o'clock.'

-

Please, Sir! I shall sleep so much sounder to-night.'

Ask your grandmother, you young rogue!'

nance.

I glanced at her. A bright smile was on her withered counteShe did not speak, but I knew that my aged grand-sire was the identical Harry, and his white-haired partner no other than the Mary he had loved.

J. L. C.

SONNETS

TO THE

HOUSATONIC.

BY WILLIAM PITT PALMER.

V.

THERE, on yon eastern hill's uplifted brow,
My father's cot, o'erhung with leafy green,
Smiles as of yore, the last dear object seen
At parting, and the earliest gazed on now,
As through the bending elm's light waving bough,
Its white walls gleam upon my wistful eye,
And the warm flushings of the sunset sky

Its western casements lavishly endow

With heaven's reflected glories. How intense
The joy that follows memory's flying trace,

To find the olden forms in their old place,

Grouped as when boyhood idly wandered thence;
No dimple parted from the landscape's face,
No numbness fallen on the gazer's sense!

VI.

SPIRIT of change! hast thou as gently dealt
With those dear forms that lovingly whilome
Did meet and mingle in that blessed home,
Each joy or grief with mutual fondness felt?
Are they all there?-gray sire, and she that knelt
O'er my pale childhood with an angel's care?
The generous brother and the sister fair?
Whose gentle eyes would ever soonest melt
To hear the woes of that adventurous sire,
Whose youth was cradled on the perilous sea,
In storm and battle, battling to be free,
With those who braved the Briton's vengeful ire,
And bore the green land to her jubilee,

Through fields of blood, and cities whelmed in fire?

BY ROBERT BURTS, ESQ., OF THE UNITED STATES' NAVY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE CIRCUS,' 'THE KUSHOW PROPERTY ETC.

'DIABOLICAL Envy, and its brother Malice, with all their accursed company, sly whispering, cruel back biting, spiteful detraction, and the rest of that hideous crew, which I hope are very falsely said to attend the tea-table, being more apt to think they frequent those public places where virtuous women never come.'

THIS vindication, from the very clever preface to the letters of LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU, will be confirmed by the wisdom of ages. The dignity of the tea-table will be maintained, in spite of the insane ravings of the Graham.' Let the reader call to mind the circles of his own tea-drinking acquaintance, who are confirmed in that practice, and seriously answer to his own heart, whether 'diabolical envy and its brother malice, with all their accursed company, sly whispering, cruel backbiting, spiteful detraction, and the rest of that hideous crew,' are not very falsely said to attend the teatable.

I recollect a knot of antique sociables, of whom Miss Patty was the presiding deity, who held their assemblies all the year round at the Honeysuckle Cottage. Not that any formal invitation was given out, but there seemed to be a tacit understanding betwixt them that they should come together weekly, to enjoy each other's society, and to drink tea, sociably.' Nor was there any grudging of hospitality on the part of my aunt, who was knit to these 'good souls' by bonds of the tenderest affection. And it can be with truth averred, that these pious women indulged only in virtuous discourses; and the only inroads which they made upon any thing, were upon my Aunt Patty's

It was their nectar,

best souchong tea. Oh! they loved their tea! their chief good,' their ambrosial food. To this delicious beverage, all other viands yielded up the palm.

How well do I remember them, grouped about the tea-table, on a winter's evening, starched and prim, waiting for the moving of the waters.' A genial fire burnt brightly on the hearth; the tidy bricks were painted of a flaming redness; the brazen andirons were like refined gold. In those days, grates, Franklins, and other paraphernalia, had not possessed the ample jambs, nor dissipated those feelings of greater sociability, which rallied around the ancient hearth, like an altar. There was no intense and sulphur-breathing coal, to clog the free atmosphere of the apartment; but gay and brilliant flames shot upward, with an agreeable crackling, diffusing the double luxury of light and heat. A tabby-cat, that requisite appendage to a picture of domestic comfort, lay wrapped up in perfect quiescence on the rug. She was a beautifully-tortoised creature, and would have graced a painter's canvass. The mantel was not crowded with shell temples, and other gimcrackry of a vulgar school, but with four substantial brazen candlesticks, with china vases between, and at the ends two polished conch-shells, which made a dreary sound when applied to the ear, like the distant roaring of the surge. The family Bible occupied a conspicuous place in the apartment, and was reverentially supported by a polished walnut stand. The walls were adorned with needle-work, in excellent preservation, enclosed in narrow gilded frames, and protected from dust, dirt, and close inspection; the enduring monuments of Miss Patty's early taste and ingenuity. In order to save the trouble of answering questions, they were severally inscribed, basket of flowers,' 'fruit,' 'robin red breast,' etc., etc., and underneath, in legible characters, PATTY JONES.'

The

In fact, every thing about the apartment looked 'so nice.' carpet was most cleanly swept; the sideboard was polished to the last degree; the mahogany table in the centre reflected a plate of very desirable toast. The tea-urn, that honored receptacle, was worthy of its pure ambrosia. Non cedebat honori.' It raised itself in silvery whiteness, above all the minor utensils of the table, while the steam ascending from it, like a rich incense, made a shadowy undulation on the wall. Around its circumference, was an embossed representation of a fox-chase. Reynard was flying for his life; the huntsmen were winding their horns; the horses were dashing over the hedge; the hounds were in full cry, over bush, brake, and scaur,' and pursuing the game unto the death. The milk-pot was a little model of classic elegance. The cream reposed in it like double refined snow of the Appenines. It seemed as pure as purity itself. It looked a cordial, as if it might be 'parmaceti for an inward bruise,' a balsam for the most deadly wound. And then the sugar! - rivalling the milk in whiteness! glistening in the bright light; cracked into the most convenient lumps, and ready to be conveyed with tongs of silver for the grand amalgamation!

Is not your mouth moistened, my reader? Does not a tear-like drop struggle and gush from its corners, and your inmost stomach yearn? The lip has its tears of sympathy from a yearning stomach,

as well as the eye from the burning crucible of the brain.' Oh! delightful banquets, noctes cenæque Deûm !'-superior to all other banquets, and worthy the sweetest inspiration of the muse. Dinner, with its viands, is a gross, brutish, animal enjoyment. Teeth, muscles, eyes, heart, soul, must be engrossed in despatching its solid masses. But tea is a divine, ethereal, subtle symposium. It distils into the brain, it enliveneth the soul, it sharpeneth the tongue, it brighteneth the eyes, it smooths down wrinkles and cares; it is worthy of a god above the purple god Bacchus; worthier far of chased goblets, and to be crowned with flowers. Tea bringeth no redness of eyes, no defection of the wits, no grovelling obeisance to the earth, no mockery of the world, no melancholy abstractions. Tea clothes none with raggedness, shakes no man's credit, forfeits no friends, brings no gray hairs in sorrow to the grave,' makes no wives broken-hearted, no children beggars, no houses desolate. And can the bacchanal say as much, who steeps his soul in forgetfulness, and riots on the juice of the grape? Come with me to the garden of Rollo. He is a raving votary of the god. He revels in nocturnal orgies. Look around you, and behold the garden of the sluggard. How are these walks clogged with rubbish. These beds, once so redolent of fragrance, how vainly do they struggle against the dominion of weeds. How doth this tender plant droop for shelter. How doth that sweet flower struggle to bloom. How doth the bruised and trampled vine beg for thy training hand, heart-broken wife of his bosom! How even the birds do not pause upon the wing which once descended, and made these alleys vocal. Behold here a ruined arbor, a neglected grotto; there a fallen statue, and a fountain choked with leaves. The train of the serpent is over the 'flowers of loveliness;' the wild grass grows long and unheeded, and I gaze upon a waste and desert spot, which might have been a garden of paradise.

Direct your eyes to the old mansion, at the end of the avenue. The moss grows on the roof, the bricks drop from the chimney, the windows hang by a hinge, and the lintels are decayed. Does it bear about it any appearance of a HOME? Are there any altars around which the affections may gather in holy sacrifice! Alas, the golden censers have been broken, the sweet incense goeth up no more. And are these thy fruits, oh Bacchus! giver of joy! And is the danger sweet to follow the god whose temples are encircled with verdant leaves? Away with thee! I contemn thee, thou crowned god! We will tear down thy altars, and build others, even to new divinities. Behold a contrast. Come to the cheerful mansion of Miss Patty, and to her 'small domains.' Nightly she sips of her nectarean TEA. Do you see there aught of the elements of disorder? Is any thing apart from its own peculiar place? Are the walls unbrushed of cob-webs? Does the mantle harbor dust? The gauzy robe of Queen Mab might be trailed over those floors, and yet contract no soil. The spirit of comfort reigns within and without. The court-yard is blooming with prim roses, the weeded garden is sweet with herbs. This then is the spirit of tea!

Yet are there cavillers without number, despisers of God's blessings, setters forth of strange doctrines, who declare that even this harmless beverage is a poison. I abhor them-I detest them! Keep your

'Journals of Health,' gentlemen, your inane scribblings. More life has been sipped from a tea-spoon, than will ever be sucked through your quill. I wonder what next will be asserted; what new device to torture patience, or what new pledges will be required. Is tea a poison? Then is there ratsbane in a peach. Then call all things poison. Write poison on the flood of the rock, destruction in the air we breathe, or death upon the heavenly manna. Point me to the wretch who, being weary of life, seeks not the ordinary method of departure, and neither blows his brains out, nor leaps from the fourth story, and gasps out his life on an iron pale, nor tosses himself from some Milvian bridge into the sea, nor hangs like a dog in his own garret, nor draws his razor at right angles with his throat, and severs the vein jugular, but resorts to a more simple operation, and with all the coolness imaginable, tells cook to put the tea-kettle on a simmer, and mixing cream and sugar, drinks down the deadly hemlock, and departs to his fathers. Or have you ever known a coroner or a jury render a verdict in the words following, to wit: Poisoned by a cup of tea?'

'Ay, Sir, we grant you; but cause and effect are not always simultaneous. There be some things which loiter and lurk in the system, and the end of them is death. It is a slow poison.' Slow as a snail's pace, doubtless. It is a potion to be taken every day, and 'warranted to take effect' at the end of three score years and ten. Then, when the aged gentleman, with head like an almond tree, and well contented, goes to his long home, ye say, 'Behold the victim !'

6

It were a mockery to measure the depths of such shallow reasonings. Give me none of your TEA-total pledges.' I shall stand up for this 'ardent liquor,' be it green or be it black, without distinction of color.'

Is it not enough to cast away so many of God's 'good creatures,' and would you dry up this last drop of comfort also? Shall every upstart reformer be thrusting his pledge and statistics in the face of my conviction, and attenuate my already slender bill of fare,' dictating to me what I shall eat, and what I shall drink, and wherewithal I shall be clothed? Reining me within bounds, and saying hitherto shalt thou come, and no farther? Shall my stomach never ' vaunt itself?' shall it never be 'puffed up? Truly, my poor judgment will have little to exercise itself upon, if it thus yields up its prerogative, but will be warped and twisted to suit the will of these moral charlatans. There is the Graham,' on the one hand, would starve me into a walking shadow,' and deprive me of those nutritious solids which make the man, substituting his own bran, worse than the broth of the Spartans. There is a host of zealots on the other, of whom we would not grumble a monosyllable, so long as they kept within modest bounds, and did not wax insolent in their might, but who, not contented with their inch,' but they must take an 'ell,' would banish from high days, and holidays all that can intoxicate,' pledging insipid healths in brimmers of water-risum teneatis amici! vaunting philanthropists! Have ye yet to learn that it is not wine alone which can intoxicate? That there are other draughts, more delicious in the quaffing, and which make the brain reel and madden; love, beauty, flattery?

Ye