allowance for such infirmities. The Author of our being has been pleased to fashion us out of great and mighty elements, which make us but a little lower than the angels, but he has mingled in our composition, weakness and passions. Will He punish us for frailties which nature has stamped upon us, or for their necessary results? The distinction between these and acts that proceed from a wicked and malignant heart is founded on eternal justice, and in the words of the Psalmist, "He knoweth our frame-He remembereth that we are dust." Shall not the rule He has established be good enough for us to judge by?

Gentlemen, the case is closed. Again I ask you to consider it well before you pronounce a verdict which shall consign this prisoner to a grave of ignominy and dishonor. These are no idle words you have heard so often. This is your fellow-citizen-a youth of promise-the rose of his family-the possessor of all kind, and virtuous, and manly qualities. It is the blood of a Kentuckian you are called upon to shed. The blood that flows in his veins has come down from those noble pioneers who laid the foundations for the greatness and glory of our State; it is the blood of a race who have never spared it when demanded by their country's cause. It is his fate you are to decide. I excite no poor, unmanly sympathy-I appeal to no low, groveling spirit. He is a man-you are men-and I only want that sympathy which man can give to man.

I will not detain you longer. But you know, and it is right you should, the terrible suspense in which some of these hearts must beat during your absence. It is proper for you to consider this, for, in such a case, all the feelings of the mind and heart should sit in council together. Your duty is yet to be done; perform it as you are ready to answer for it, here and hereafter. Perform it calmly and dispassionately, remembering that vengeance can give no satis-` faction to any human being. But if you exercise it in this case, it will spread black midnight and despair over many aching hearts. May the God of all mercy be with you in your deliberations, assist you in the performance of your duty, and teach you to judge your fellow-being as you hope to be judged hereafter!

A DOMESTIC TEMPEST.

Young people think were they wed they'd be free
From life's petty trials-but list, and we'll see
Whether bridegrooms are perfect as poets oft sing,
And brides uncorrupted by earth's venomed sting.
Behind the home curtain we'll silently peep,
And rouse a young couple who quietly sleep.

"Ho, hum," says the gent, with a stretch and a yawn 'Come, love, let's arise, it is long since the dawn;

(So soundly I've slept, I'm as cross as two sticks)
Come, darling, awake-'tis already past six."

The lovely companion starts up in surprise,
Stares vaguely around as she opens her eyes:
Again on her pillow disposes her head,

And dreams of poor coffee and yellow-white bread.
"Come, Nellie, arouse--'tis your husband's desire
That you should get up and kindle the fire."
"Indeed, Mr. Snooks, I shall do no such thing,
I've ran long enough at the flap of your wing;
And you know very well 'tis no duty of mine
Such things to perform, and I'll gladly resign
The office, and say, 'tis my ardent desire
That you should get up and kindle the fire."

"Oh dear, what a fuss you do make o'er life's ills!
I vow, dearest Nell, you're as odd as the hills;
Come, do as I bid, like a dutiful wife--

You know you are bound to obey me through life!"

"And you to protect me-hast done it? I ask;
Say, when was the time that you lightened my task?
Ah! little I thought when you made me your bride,
Such sorrow and anguish this bosom should hide;
I wish I had never been married-I do,

At least, that I ne'er had been wedded to you;
And I won't build the fire, so mind what I say,
I can't, shan't, and will not, your mandates obey."
Tut, tut, honored madam, beware how you toot,
Or I'll show you what virtue exists in my boot;
And bring to your vision a practical view
Of ancient Petruchio taming a shrew."

"Well done, Mr. Snooks, you discourse like a man-
Let all modern heroes award you the van!
Bianca shall struggle with you, and not Kate,
So, gentle Petruchio, list to your fate.

LLLLL

You've insulted, abused me,--I've borne it for years.
The world deems me happy, they see not my tears;
My wrongs shall be published-the law I'll enforce,
And justice shall grant me a bill of divorce;
I'll not build your fire, if you have none to-day-
Farewell, Mr. Snooks, I am going away."

"Ha, ha! my sweet beauty, you're spunky, I vow;
How gracefully sits that dark frown on your brow!
You speak like a woman,- -a woman of sense,

So do as you will, I shall make no defense,
And when 'tis all settled, why, then I shall go

66

And marry "sweet Bertha," my "old flame" you know.
But what shall be done with our sweet little boy,"
The pride of its father, its fond mother's joy?
Of course you'll not want him, he's so much like me,
So, madam, I'll take him. Farewell-you are free!"
"Oh dear, Mr. Snooks, do you mean what you say?”
"Of course, Mrs. Snooks, what wonder, I pray?
You care nothing for him, else why will you roam,
And bring such disgrace on your kindred and home?"

"Dear husband, forgive me-you've melted my heart,
I never once dreamed 'twas so wretched to part;
I WILL build the fire, if you'll get me some shavings,
And try to forget all my passionate ravings."

"

Nay, nay, dearest Nell, I am burning with shame, 'Tis I, only I, that am ever to blame.

.Were I less impulsive, our home were like heaven-
I can't wait for my breakfast, 'tis now nearly seven.
Good-by, love; remember you have your desire,
And I for the future will kindle the fire."

Their confab is ended-the tempest is o'er,
And Love's gentle day-star is beaming once more;
So now, gentle reader, we'll bid them adieu,
And should this dark picture unfold to your view
A lesson whose teachings shall profit you aught,
Not vain is the etching my labor hath wrought.

THE CHRISTIAN LIFE.-PHILIP Doddridge. "Live while you live," the epicure would say, And seize the pleasures of the present day; "Live while you live," the Christian preacher cries, "And give to God each moment as it flies." Lord, in my view, let both united be;I live to pleasure, while I live to thee.

JENNY DUNLEATH.-ALICE CARY.

Jenny Dunleath coming back to the town?
What! coming back here for good and for all?
Well, that's the last thing for Jenny to do,-
I'd go to the ends of the earth,-wouldn't you?
Before I'd come back! She'll be pushed to the wall.
Some slips, I can tell her, are never lived down,
And she ought to know it. It's really true,

You think, that she's coming? How dreadfully bold!
But one don't know what will be done, nowadays,
And Jenny was never the girl to be moved

By what the world said of her. What she approved,
She would do, in despite of its blame or its praise.

She ought to be wiser by this time-let's see;
Why, sure as you live, she is forty years old!
The day I was married she stood up with me,
And my Kate is twenty: ah yes, it must be
That Jenny is forty, at least-forty-three,
It may be, or four. She was older, I know,
A good deal, when she was my bridesmaid, than I,
And that's twenty years, now, and longer, ago;
So if she intends to come back and deny
Her age, as 'tis likely she will, I can show
The plain honest truth, by the age of my Kate,
And I will, too! To see an old maid tell a lie
Just to seem to be young, is a thing that I hate.

You thought we were friends? No, my dear, not at all! 'Tis true we were friendly, as friendliness goes,

But one gets one's friends as one chooses one's clothes, And just as the fashion goes out, lets them fall.

I will not deny we were often together

About the time Jenny was in her high feather;
And she was a beauty! No rose of the May
Looked ever so lovely as she on the day

I was married. She, somehow, could grace
Whatever thing touched her. The knots of soft lace
On her little white shoes,-the gay cap that half hid
Her womanly forehead,-the bright hair that slid
Like sunshine adown her bare shoulders,—the gauze
That rippled about her sweet arms, just because
'Twas Jenny that wore it,-the flower in her belt,-
No matter what color, 'twas fittest, you felt.

If she sighed, if she smiled, if she played with her fan,
A sort of religious coquettishness ran

Through it all.-a bewitching and wildering way,
All tearfully tender and graciously gay.

If e'er you were foolish in word or in speech,
The approval she gave with her serious eyes
Would make your own foolishness seem to you wise;
So all from her magical presence, and each,
Went happy away: 'twas her art to confer
A self-love, that ended in your loving her.

And so she is coming back here! a mishap

To her friends, if she have any friends, one would say;
Well, well, she can't take her old place in the lap
Of holiday fortune: her head must be gray;

And those dazzling cheeks! I would just like to see
How she looks, if I could, without her seeing me.

To think of the Jenny Dunleath that I knew,
A dreary old maid, with nobody to love her,-
Her hair silver-white and no roof-tree above her,-
One ought to have pity upon her, 'tis true!
But I never liked her; in truth, I was glad
In my own secret heart when she came to her fall;
When praise of her meekness was ringing the loudest
I always would say she was proud as the proudest;
That meekness was only a trick that she had,-
She was too proud to seem to be proud, that was all.
She stood up with me, I was saying: that day
Was the last of her going abroad for long years;
I never had seen her so bright and so gay,

Yet, spite of the lightness, I had my own fears

That all was not well with her: 'twas but her pride

Made her sing the old songs when they asked her to sing, For when it was done with, and we were aside,

A look wan and weary came over her brow;

And still I can feel just as if it were now,

How she slipped up and down on my finger, the ring,
And so hid her face in my bosom and cried.

When the fiddlers were come, and young Archibald Mill
Was dancing with Hetty, I saw how it was;

Nor was I misled when she said she was ill,

For the dews were not standing so thick on the grass
As the drops on her cheeks. So you never have heard
How she fell in disgrace with young Archibald! No?
I won't be the first, then, to whisper a word,-
Poor thing! if she only repent, let it go!

Let it go! let what go? My good madam, I pray,
Whereof do I stand here accused? I would know,-
I am Jenny Dunleath that you knew long ago,
A dreary old maid, and unloved, as you say:
God keep you, my sister, from knowing such woe!