do not catch him guzzling beer and oysters of a morning. He eschews cocktails, slings, and the whole tribe of toddies, and, his fair round belly, with good capon lined,' he sips his weak brandy and water, or his diluted sherry, with the air of a man who is no novice, and who can predict to a shade the coats of his tongue at sunrise. Enviable justice! Thou worldly-wise, thou respectable man, through what dangers hast thou passed! How many severe head-aches and severe mortifications, sometimes burnt, and again only singed, has Time carried you! Where didst thou learn that voice, that swell and froth of utterance? Where that port, that measured gait, the blending of stage dignity and commercial consequence? Where learnedst thou the carriage of that cane? What tailor made thy coat, the flaps so broad and respectable?—and where gottest thou that hat, that looks new and old in a breath, with just enough of wear about it? I see thou hast a wife; and she too, inestimable woman! begins to fill out into respectability. Who could suppose either of you ever danced? You seem to have been for ages what you now are. You look no older to-day than yesterday, or six years ago. Were you ever young? Did those eyes severe' in wisdom, ever look love, drop the tear of pity, or glisten with delight? Did those compressed lips ever cry 'ma,' or imprint a warm kiss? Good justice, thou art not much to blame, but there certainly is a good deal to laugh at in your mock solemnity. You are acting a part. God speed you harmlessly to the end of the fifth act!

Now- laying aside the true justice, a man all benevolence and charity, who has learned to look as a philosopher and Christian upon the errors of man, who deals in large principles, and trades wholesale in virtue - there is your justice-merchant, your justice-deacon, your justice-parson, your justice-quack, your justice-reformer, and your justice-of-the-peace. The first makes no allowance for any body's faults but his own; the second sleeps in church, and votes a member out of meeting for getting in his hay on a showery Sunday; the third preaches what he does not believe; the fourth gives medicines he never takes himself; the fifth is crazy about the public virtue, to the neglect of all inward piety; the sixth often gets his appointment because fit for nothing else, or as a reward for twenty years' service to a party. Some of these do and some do not wear beards of formal cut.' Some only shave once a week, out of compliment to a clean shirt. All are large eaters; many sly drinkers. All are full of wise saws and modern instances, and so they play their part.'

VOL. XII.

HOPE.

HOPE is a goddess fairest seen,

When Time holds up his veil between;
Her charms are of such doubtful hue,
They cannot bear a closer view.

Approach can mar them-contact blight,
And brief possession mars them quite.

4

AN ALLEGORY.

BY GRACE GRAFTON.

In a beautiful valley, which had long since been redeemed from the rude hand of nature, and over which the art of man had spread the blessings of civilization, a noble mansion reared its walls. In the midst of a spacious plain it stood, and peace and plenty were there.

This goodly dwelling was inhabited by a dame called Virtue, who not only maintained order and discipline within its walls, but over the whole valley shed the influence of her wise laws and sober regulations. Virtue was a comely matron, and pleasant to look upon, when she wore a smile upon her brow, and walked abroad through peaceful scenes, to the natural beauty of which her prudence had added an air of sweet security. The majesty of a queen sat upon her brow, and the purity of an angel; and there was at times something so winning in her tranquil smile, that an unfortunate wretch who had often looked on her from a distance with wistful eyes, ventured one evening to approach under the shadow of twilight, and implore her protection.

The supplicant was one of those erring daughters of humanity for whom Vice, the great arch enemy of Virtue, had set his snares, and not in vain. Poor fool! she had unwarily entered his enticing paths, and becoming sorely entangled, had made a desperate effort to retrace her steps; but not unscathed did she escape; she had lost her fairest ornaments, and many a thorn bad pierced her feet and rent her garments. Thus blemished and bent with shame, she appeared before Virtue, and humbly asked permission to tread the same road, and follow at a distance on her chaste footsteps.

Scarcely had this dejected form presented itself, when a sudden change came over the face of Virtue. As though a wintry wind had swept over her, she stood chilled and rigid, and scarcely opening her lips, motioned sternly with her raised arm to the sinner to depart. But not so was this child of error to be daunted. Still lingering near the sweet abode of Virtue, she haunted her steps, and hung upon her robe, and entreated beseechingly to be allowed once more to wind her way in silent obscurity through those paths of peace. Until, observing ever that she was repulsed with scorn and abhorrence, she stepped aside, and fell once more into the snares of Vice, where fearful ills beset her, and evil fellowship corrupted. The blandishments of Pleasure and Wantonness, those thoughtless satellites of Vice, gave transient relief from the anguish of remorse, and with companions like unto these she revelled a while, forgetful of the charms of innocence, and indignant at the frowns of Virtue; for a change had passed over her soul, from the moment she was cast off, degraded, from her last interview with that prudent and dignified lady. They never met again, except by chance, when, sad and weary, this wretched wanderer made a last feeble effort to regain her footing within the outskirts of Virtue's beautiful domain. Well might she struggle, for a yawning abyss was near, and many a fatal warning told her that her backward steps were sliding thitherward. But it

was now too late to shake off the evil companions that dragged her downward, and hindered her for ever more from passing unnoticed into the humble path of duty. Wantonness idled near, and Levity hung about her like a gaudy creeper round a sickly stem.

A crimson flush rested on the chaste brow of Virtue, and indignation sparkled in her eyes, when she accidentally encountered the hardened gaze, and loose disordered air, of the unfortunate; and turning to her friends Modesty and Propriety, whose faces were as red as her own, she cried, in tones that sounded like knells of death in the ears of the guilty: Aid me, aid me, my maidens, in chasing this abandoned creature from our own pure, unsullied walks!'

She had scarcely spoken, when her wish was accomplished, and Vice, seizing on his victim, hurled her into the abyss of infamy, where, through scenes of unspeakable pollution, she trod her way to everlasting sorrow.

Where were those lovely sisters, the fair attendants on Virtue, Faith, Hope, and Charity, whose sweet voices might have counselled that stern dame to listen to the pleadings of Mercy, and stretch forth a redeeming hand to the erring one, before it was too late to save her from the dreadful doom of the wicked? Faith was at church; Hope dwells too much on the future, to grant assistance in present difficulty; and as for Charity — she was at home.

AMERICAN

THE maidens of my own countrie,
I boast me of them all;
As smiling in their tranquil homes,
As blithe in festal hall:
I boast me of their forms of grace,
Their eyes of heavenly blue,
But most I pride me in their hearts
Their hearts, so warm and true.

'Come, Laura of the siren song
The ball to-night is gay;
With roses there and music-notes,
They slip the hours away;
Then be no more the lone wild-rose,
With sweet face aye unseen,
But braid those sunny locks, and come
To reign our Beauty's queen.'

'Gay, gay, I trow the ball may be,
With mirth and music's chime,
But I must by my father sit,

And sing an old world rhyme. Sweeter to me than dancer's praise, It is to hear him say,

'God bless thee now, my bonny child, Thou steal'st mine age away!'

'Come, Amie of the roguish eye,
Young Ernest leads the dance,

To him full many a maiden throws
A message-sending glance;

Come show that dainty cheek to-night,
Its blushes are betrayed,

And be no more the lily-flower,
That lives and dies a maid.

Elizabethtown, (N. J.,) May, 1838.

GIRLS.

'Young Ernest leads the dance to-night,
He hath a soul of glee;

Yet were his step not there, I trow,
The ball were bright for me:
But wo's my heart! all sick and pale
My brother pineth now,

And he will chide for Amie's hand
To bathe his burning brow.'

'Say Isabel, 'our soul's ladyé,'
The ball is blithest now,
Then why amidst its mirth, so pale,
With brimful eye, art thou?
Ye look just like the new-dressed rose
The big rain has gone o'er,
That droops the head, and seems to say,
I'll queen it here no more.'

'The ball is beautiful to me,

The music is most sweet,
"T is joy to see my sisters glance,
Their glow-worm light'ning feet;
But Leslie is a sailor bold,

And he is on the sea;

The winds may lose his bark, to-night,
Then what's this ball to me?'

The maidens of my own countrie,

I boast me of them all,

As smiling in their tranquil homes,
As blithe in festal hall;

I boast me of their forms of grace,
Their eyes of heavenly blue,
But most I pride me in their hearts,
Their hearts, so warm and true.

H. L. B.

THE EVENING OF LIFE.

WHEN the summer day of youth is slowly wasting away into the nightfall of age, and the shadows of past years grow deeper and deeper, as life wears to its close, it is pleasant to look back, through the vista of time, upon the sorrows and felicities of our earlier years. If we have a home to shelter, and hearts to rejoice with us, and friends have been gathered together around our firesides, then the rough places of our wayfaring will have been worn and smoothed away, in the twilight of life, while the sunny spots we have passed through, will grow brighter and more beautiful. Happy indeed are they, whose intercourse with the world has not changed the tone of their holier feelings, or broken those musical chords of the heart, whose vibrations are so melodious, so tender and touching, in the evening of age.'

Two articles, one entitled 'Our Birth Days,' and the other 'Our Wedding Days,' have appeared in the KNICKERBOCKER. They were designed to present to view many of those interesting scenes which distinguish the period between the dawn of infancy and the meridian of human life; to trace the gradual formation of early wishes continually expanding, and the aspirations of young ambition, in its advance to the cares and business of the world, and the realization of anticipated happiness, not only in the morning of connubial promises and hopes, but in the calm and retirement of the family circle, amidst its kind, and mild, and purifying influences. Some advice has been offered, and some suggestions have been made, in the hope that they might awaken more particular attention to the discharge of those duties and delightful offices, on which the happiness of home so essentially depends; which assuredly serve to brighten those chains which connect hearts with hearts, here on earth; and, what is of more vital importance, may prepare those hearts for never-ending communion in the regions of love, purity, and peace, in Heaven. In our early days, we are constantly extending our upward view to the elevated landscapes spread out before us. Our ambition is continually prompting us to ascend, till we can reach them, and join the happy multitudes who possess and enjoy them. In this prospective and distant view, we perceive unnumbered charms, but we have no distinct vision of the scenes beyond. In process of time, in varicus paths, we advance; and, as we advance, we discover the elevation to be less than we had imagined: and as soon as we arrive at the summit, we see that the plain is not so extensive as we had supposed; and find that the ground soon becomes gradually descending to the shadowy vale of years. To this vale, our view is now more particularly to be directed, and to the search for those avenues which may be the most smooth, peaceful, and pleasant.

We are now to consider ourselves as having arrived at that stage of our earthly journey, from which the place of its termination becomes every year more and more distinctly discernible. We perceive a gradual change in the climate, and an autumnal coolness in the air, as we advance: the verdure has lost much of its freshness; and the fading colors around us remind us that we are in the neighborhood of life's sober twilight, and solitude, and decay. Such, at least, is the prospect to the general observer, and such are the reasoning and the conclusions which are constantly commanding our attention. Such scenes as these are of an instructive character. They call to our remembrance the flatteries of the world, and its thousand broken promises, and teach us to depend for our contentment and

happiness upon other sources than those which satisfied our desires in the days of the heart's sunshine, while indulging in the pride of health and prospect, We must search for these sources, and secure a supply from them. Their waters may not be so sparkling as those we loved in former years, but they are more salubrious and composing. The holidays of the heart may not be so gay and joyous, but its seasons of thanksgiving will be calm and peaceful. What then are these sources? They are numerous, and accessible to all. It is true, that in all periods of life, sickness or sorrow may visit us, and infuse bitterness into our cup. For these, allowances must always be made, in our estimates of happiness: but making proper deductions on this account, it will be found that life's evening, and its near approach to it, have their fair proportion of substantial peace and comfort.

In the first place, we have the benefit of those lessons which we have been taught by experience; and foolish experiments we shall not be inclined to repeat. We shall be on our guard against temptations, knowing how we are surrounded by them, and knowing also their power. The young are always trying experiments; the aged have seen their uselessness, and avoid them. Youth is a bold and imprudent speculator; Age is cautious, and deals more in realities than in castle-building. Hence the pains and mortifications of disappointment seldom destroy or impair its peace of mind. In the next place, the feelings and passions, which make so much display in the early part of life, in old age become calm and subdued; at least their motion is more gentle and pacific. Anger and resentment are found to be disorderly and disturbing inmates of the bosom; and they will soon be expelled by those whose experience has taught them the miseries which such intruders always occasion. In the third place, in old age, our friendships become matured; and our friends are estimated according to what we consider their deserts; whereas the hasty friendships, as they are called, formed in early life, are freqently dangerous to one or both of the parties: they are formed at random, too often, and end in misfortune. A want of experience occasions thousands of these temporary alliances, which are productive of no valuable results. Old friends are like old wine: more pure, more loved, and more medicinal, than new. A faithful friend is the medicine of life;' and when experience is added to fidelity, so much the better.

Again. Go into the family circle, and see the venerable heads of it, whose hands and hearts have been joined for half a century. They have become acquainted with each other's desires, failings, and virtues; and if the world frowns, they are from habit inclined to aid and comfort each other. Their happiness and duty cannot be separated. If any thing is necessary to strengthen their mutual affection and add to the harmony of home, they find it in the consciousness of having been faithful in the education of their children, by planting in their hearts the seeds of religion and virtue. If old age is not a season of pure enjoyment, with a competency, the fault must have been occasioned by early aberrations, or a sinful apostacy from known duty. It is true that the remarks immediately preceding are only generally correct. There is in society a melancholy catalogue of