ILL the light-hearted maiden,
whose laughing eyes glance at
these lines, permit her attention
to rest a moment or two upon the
sketch I am about to pencil? albeit,

it may be of a more sad and soin-
bre hue than the bright images usually
floating before her imagination. Be-

hold, then, a once puissant lady strug gling with the agonies of life's last hours

She is rich in gold and diamonds, in palaces and lands. The blast of her war-trumpets can summon squadrons of armed men to the field.

C

Her word of command can cover the seas with the

white sails of one of the proudest navies of the globe. Her red-cross banner floats in pride from many a "castled crag," and over

"A land of beauty

Fondled by the circling sea."

Yet is the face of this queenly sufferer deadly pale; her eyes are wandering and restless; and her expressive features indicate extreme mental distress. Legions of sad remembrances are marching through her mind, terrible as a phantom army to her fears A mitred prelate stands beside her royal couch, vainly endeavoring, by his devotions, to soothe her ruffled spirit, and fit it for its passage to the veiled world beyond. Vain attempt! Every look of England's royal mistress, the great ELIZABETH, that once haughty daughter of the Tudors, seems to say: Gladly would I surrender pomp, power, and empire, for the sweet innocency of childhood; for

"A conscience free from sin !'"'

And thus, with her spirit tossed upon a sea of

doubt, restless and shuddering, she surrenders her

earthly throne, and stands undistinguished amidst a crowd of spirits, a trembling subject at the bar of the

King of kings!

Such sorrow, in

This is a spectacle of sadness. such a mind, at such an hour, was very painful to endure. Nevertheless, it was only the necessary sequence of a great and fatal mistake which had ruled the life of the queen. What was that mistake? She had relied upon things external to herself for enjoyment and content! She had looked to her crown, her kingdom, her friends, as springs from which streams of pleasure were to flow into her soul. She had dreamed of attaining happiness by levying contributions upon the vast array of outward and visible objects which the Providence of God had placed within her reach. Vain expectation! Illusive dream! It made her life turbulent and uneasy, and her death painful and unsatisfactory. She had obviously mistaken the false for the true, - the evil for the good. Failing to discern the true "fountain of living water," she lived and died in the vain attempt to quench the mighty thirst of her undying spirit

at "cisterns," which, though of imposing magnificence and peerless splendor, nevertheless "hold no water!"

I am seriously inclined to fear that the young lady to whom I now write is entering the great temple of life under the guidance of this same fatal mistake. Is it not so, my reader? Are you not look ing out upon the thousand gay things of life with the expectation of deriving your choicest pleasure from their possession? Is not life vocal to your ears with alluring sounds of invitation to partake of its delights and be happy? And do you not listen to those voices with pleasing rapture, and fancy how completely blessed you should be, if wealth to purchase admission to the halls of gayety and fashion were yours! If you were the "belle" of the ball-room, the fascination of the soirée, the "admired of all admirers" at Newport or Saratoga, the betrothed of some noble-minded lover, or the wife of some doting husband, then, you imagine, your heart would throb with genuine and substantial bliss. The desire which, by its restlessness, now keeps you from true

mental repose, would then, you fancy, be satisfied: that sense of soul-emptiness of which you are so painfully conscious would be removed, and you be the delighted possessor of genuine bliss on earth. These things being so, are you not self-convicted of the same error whose disastrous consequences you. just now beheld in my picture of the royal Elizabeth? That fatal mistake, of looking wholly to things external to herself for happiness, which embit tered her life and robbed her death-bed of all true comfort, is already beguiling you. That mistake must be corrected, or you will also live unblessed, and die uncomforted.

Let us enter, at least in fancy, yon ancient house, whose high-peaked roofs and gable ends proclaim it a relic of the "days that are no more." Within, it is desolate and lonely. A venerable lady of the olden time is housekeeper; and a girl of rude manners, but robust frame, is her servant. ascend these rickety stairs, and introduce ourselves to the owner of this antiquated pile. Here is his

Let us

room. It is a laboratory, containing, as you may see,