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And known, in the sun or star-light, aught
Which might not beseem so lonely a spot,—
The stealthy fox, and the shy raccoon-
The night-bird's wing in the shining moon-
The frog's low croak; and, upon the hill,
The steady chant of the whippoorwill?—

"Yet is there something to fancy dear
In this silent cave and its lingering fear,-
Something which tells of another age,
Of the wizard's wand, and the Sybil's page,
Of the fairy ring and the haunted glen,
And the restless phantoms of murdered men :
The grandanie's tale, and the nurse's song-
The dreams of childhood remembered long;
And I love even now to list the tale

Of the Demon's Cave, and its haunted vale."

One of the most striking instances of the effects of a disordered imagination recently occurred in this vicinity. The following are the facts

In September, 1831, a worthy and highly-esteemed inhabitant of this town died suddenly on the bridge over the Merrimac, by the bursting of a blood-vessel. It was just at day-break, when he was engaged with another person in raising the draw of the bridge for the passage of a sloop. The suddenness of the event; the excellent character of the deceased; and, above all, a vague rumor, that some extraordinary disclosure was to be made, drew together a large concourse at the funeral. After the solemn services were concluded, Thomas, the brother of the dead man,―himself a most exemplary Christian,-rose up, and desired to relate some particulars regarding the death of his brother. He then stated,-and his manner was calm, solemn, impressive, that, more than a month previous to his death, his brother had told him, that his feelings had been painfully disturbed by seeing, at different times, on the bridge, a quantity of human blood;—that, sometimes, while he was gazing upon it, it suddenly disappeared, as if removed by an invisible hand; that it lay thick and dark amidst the straw and litter; that, many times, in the dusk of the evening, he had seen a vessel coming down the river, which vanished just as it reached the draw; and that, at the same time, he had heard a voice calling in a faint and lamentable tone-" I am dying!" and that the voice sounded like his own; that then he knew that the vision was for him, and that his hour of departure was at hand. Thomas, moreover, stated that, a few days before the melancholy event took place, his brother, after assuring him that he would be called upon to testify to the accounts which he had given of the vision on the bridge, told him that he had actually seen the same vessel go up the river, whose spectral image he had seen in his vision, and that, when it returned, the fatal fulfilment would take place; that, night after night, he had heard what seemed to him the sound of the horn, from that vessel, calling for the raising of the draw, and that it was to him very solemn and awful. "You all know," continued the narrator, "how my brother died,that he died fulfilling the vision,-that his blood lies even now upon the bridge, as he saw it before his death; and that his last words were heard by the captain of the vessel- I am dying!""

There was something in the circumstances of this narration,—the church crowded with faces bent earnestly on the speaker,-the evident sincerity and deep solemnity of the narrator,—and the fearful character of his communication,-while the yet unburied corpse of his brother lay before him, which was calculated to revive every latent feeling of superstition; and to overpower, at least for the moment, the convictions of reason and the arguments of philosophy.

It is altogether foreign to my purpose to enter into any deliberate analysis of the nature of these superstitions. I have briefly alluded to a few instances, of my own neighborhood and times, for the purpose of showing that, even in our enlightened age and community, the delusions of the past still linger around us; and that there is no lack of materials for an amusing and not uninstructive work of the character I have already mentioned in the beginning of this article. J. G. Wit Haverhill, 1st of 6th mo. 1833.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

It is very common to hear persons, advanced in years, speak of the pleasure they derive from glancing back and surveying the diversified events of their past lives. To reflecting minds, this employment must evidently be exceedingly pleasant, and remove many hours of, otherwise, unavoidable ennui. They trace the course of their existence, mark the developments of character and thought, observe the innumerable contrarieties of incident, that have combined to make them what they are, and learn the slight and almost imperceptible causes, that have wrought important changes in their final destination. Memory may do much in cheering the days of creeping stupidity with these agreeable reveries; but it cannot effect all that is desirable. How then can man attain this important object? how, better than by recording the incidents of his life as they occur? With such records in his hands, he again passes through the innocent pleasures and unchecked gaiety, the glee and hilarity, of childhood—the ardent fancies and buoyant hopes of youth-the strong attachments and absorbing solicitudes of manhood-and the fading and chastened enjoyments of receding energy. Every thing, by being inscribed at the moment of its occurrence, with the power of its impression full upon him, will be recalled with a reality and a vividness, that unaided retrospective thought could never produce.

But the pleasure of reviewing the events of life, need not be restricted to him with whom they transpired. Friends will seize with avidity, and with mournful satisfaction pore over these mementoes of the departed. By such annals, they recall, with the distinctness of renewed existence, scenes of interest and endearment, of which themselves have been partakers.

Biographies, by whomsoever prepared, always win attention. Yet who has not remarked, with how much deeper interest the simple and artless disclosures of Franklin and Barrington are read, than any of the most labored encomiums upon the most eminent men, that have

lived. It is to children, however, that such memoirs furnish the most intense delight. Every one has seen and felt the eagerness with which they hang upon the lips of their decrepit ancestors, to learn the stories of other times. Every one has heard, and, perchance, been wearied with their searching questions into the circumstances and feelings of his own life. How will their insatiable curiosity pause, then, in temporary satisfaction, when all, that they have so eagerly desired, is open to their admiring gaze.

If the only effect of a man's writing memoirs of himself were the pleasure, which he himself gains and confers upon others, there would be a powerful incentive for him to perform the labor. But the influence stops not here. It is extended to the intellectual and moral character, both of himself and of those who follow him. Whilst he is preparing a feast, wherewith to enliven the tedious hours of advanced age, he acquires the habit of self-observation. He notices the variations of his propensities, marks their mutual consistency, and models the future upon the experience of the past. From the habit of tracing the various connections and relations between thought and action, he will exhibit more of uniformity and stability in his pursuits. He dives more deeply into the workings of his own mind, and "brings order out of chaos."

He, who writes accurate memoirs of himself, enriches science in her most noble department. The intellectual, like the natural, philosopher demands facts, upon which to found his instructions. His only safe recourse is to life; but he can look upon life only as he sees it passing around him. He cannot penetrate the deep, dark veil, that shrouds the operations of a mind intent upon showing its fairest, proudest works, and eliciting applause. He cannot enter the great work-shop of others' thoughts, and survey the crude materials, that are there refined and polished to give them unreal worth. He cannot spy out the intricacies of the machinery, by which the same apparent impressions of external objects are made to produce results the most contradictory in different individuals. Those alone, whose minds were subjected to these operations, can unravel the mystery, and, by developing the progress of their thoughts, bring to light the hidden springs of action; and, if they will but be faithful in their work, they will give clearer, more correct, and more instructive views of the intellect, than all the beautiful theorists, who have ever occupied the arena of contention. Let the intellectual philosopher have access to such materials, and he may place his system upon an unyielding foundation. It may be attacked with all the power of the human mind-it can never be overthrown. Sophistry may gain partial advantages in its sinuous progress, but the truth will shine, and be clearer from temporary obscurations.

But a formal statement and a collation of the principles, that would here be displayed, would not be necessary. A better and more impressive knowledge of them would be acquired from the simple, expressive language of experience in the author. A collection of such works will be the most valuable, that can be brought together, so long as the cultivation of the intellectual and moral power shall be paramount to every other object. It is directly applicable to the grand purposes of education. The teacher of youth has before him an ex

tended manual, opening to his inspection the results of the various measures, that have been practised. His models are emphatically practical. He compares the relative influence, that different circumstances exert in the formation of character. He rejects whatever is of injurious tendency, and adopts whatever will give a proper inclination to the pursuits of those under his care. He can do more. plating the nature of their opening minds, he traces the resemblance between them and those, that have left their image for his guide, and learns what particular course to mark out for each individual, that he may make the largest advances in knowledge and usefulness.

Contem

But it is the youth himself, who will derive the most important benefit from autobiographies. The interest, that will be awakened, will be a valuable aid. It will withdraw his mind from the pernicious influence of those false views of life and character, that are so alluringly set forth in romance. He will learn the connection between means and ends, and not be taught, that all depends upon a fortunate adventure-and that time, and suspense, and trouble, are obliterated to him, on whom the stars shine propitiously. Thus he will make a pastime of improvement-he will take solid food for his dessert-he will imbibe, almost unconsciously, and with the utmost interest and delight, sentiments to govern his maturity.

When the life of a distinguished man is written by a friend, there is a dwelling upon the events of his childhood, the early developments of genius, and his indifference to the customary pursuits of those of his own age, which leads to the belief, that his eminence is not attainable by common minds. But in the autobiographer, the young reader sees another self. He recognizes thoughts, of which he has himself been possessed. He learns why his author forsook the ordinary pursuits of childhood-marks the bias of his mind, and admires the result; and, as he pursues the narrative, he learns, that it is labor,persevering, all-conquering labor, which raised the master-spirit to the elevation it sustained. He longs for equal renown. He applies himself to his task with a fervid and an untiring zeal, and thus feels all the salutary influence of "so bright and so glorious an example."

We know that vanity will be imputed to the man, who writes and publishes to the world the story of his life. But will he, whose soul is bent on the good of his race, be diverted from his purpose by such a charge? Will he regard the idle slanders of those meaner souls, that have not the concentration of thought to discern, nor the stability and strength of character to comprehend and appreciate the more noble motives, which guide the philanthropist? The memory of these short-sighted detractors shall be veiled in oblivion, while he, against whom the shafts of malice were aimed, shall erect a monument to himself in the shrine of humanity, imperishable as the intellect of man. M. T.

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MARRIED WOMEN.*

Why should not females be instructed in their social rights, and in the means of preserving what is their own? and why should they be deprived of the benefit of knowing, that they can protect themselves against the barbarism of laws, which crept into the social system when they were slaves? WM. SULLIVAN.

While as the silly owner of the goods
Weeps over them, and wrings his hapless hands,
And shakes his head, and trembling stands aloof,
While all is shared and all is borne away,
Ready to starve, and dares not touch his own.

Je ne suis pas de ceux qui disent, Ce n'est rien,
C'est une femme qui se noie;

Je dis que c'est beaucoup; et ce sexe vaut bien,
Que nous le regrettions, puisqu'il fait notre joie.

SHAKSPEARE.

LA FONTAINE.

I had been taught to reverence the law as a sort of earthly Providence, as the great popular sovereign; the unthroned and sceptreless prince; the mild dictator, whose province it was to see that not a single subject of its sway received harm. Protection against the law? protection against the protector? EDWARD EVERETT, Above all these is the moral principle clothed with a kingly authority over man's whole nature plainly given to bear sway over every desire. It is the principle of justice, taking the rights of all under its protection, and frowning on the least wrong, however largely it may serve ourselves. CHANNING,

It is bad policy to depreciate women. 1 would sooner teach them to overvalue, than to undervalue themselves, so long at least as they are our companions for life, and the mothers of our children. We all act according to our own standard of self-estimation; and the more sensitive we are, the more are we influenced in our behavior by the opinions of others concerning us. Women are more sensitive than we, and therefore more at the mercy of opinion. It is women, after all, that form our character. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

Ar first view, one might imagine moral rules unnecessary to wellmeaning people, that the impulses of a benevolent heart might be safely trusted for just views and due performance of our social duties; but our own experience, at length, and what we learn of others, show us our mistake. We are taught to thank Heaven, that it has not left us, with our limited views of the consequences of actions, to decide upon measures according to their apparent utility-that since nothing less than a vast and altogether unattainable extent of observation and experience would constitute us accurate judges of general expedience, there has been conferred upon us the most precious of all gifts, a set of infallible rules to mark out our path; a code, that, by its authority, hinders the ingenuity, which finds as many arguments for the wrong as for the right from being an evil, instead of a boon. The records of our race testify, how often, by not borrowing this light divine, they have gone astray. The woes of Africa originated in mistaken humanity. "To save the weaker natives of America from servitude, Las Casas proposed to the Flemish ministers, to purchase a sufficient number of negroes from the Portuguese settlements on the coast of Africa, and transport them to America, that they might be employed as slaves in working the mines and cultivating the ground. While he contended earnestly for the liberty of those born in one quarter of the globe, he labored to enslave the inhabitants of another region; and, in the warmth of his zeal to save the Americans from the yoke, pronounced it to be lawful and expedient to impose one still heavier, upon the Africans." We learn of the laws of morality, to condemn the unhallowed policy,

* This article has been long in our possession. Its publication was at first postponed, to afford us an opportunity to look at the work by Dr. Cooper, which seems to have suggested the subject to the writer. Such an opportunity has never occurred. The subject is interesting in itself, and is well treated, and can have lost none of its interest, by the inadvertent procrastination of publicity to which it has been doomed.

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