soon at leisure, and asked him the common questions, his name, &c. The original debt was four hundred and forty dollars; it had stood a long time, and with the interest amounted to a sum between seven and eight hundred dollars. My brother went to his table, and after examining the forgiven list attentively, a sudden smile lighted up his countenance, and told me the truth at a glance — the old man's name was there! My brother quietly took a chair by his side, and a conversation ensued between them which I shall never forget. "Your note is outlawed,'* said my brother; it was dated twelve years ago, payable in two years; there is no witness, and no interest has ever been paid; you are not bound to pay this note: we cannot recover the amount.'

"Sir,' said the old man, 'I wish to pay it. It is the only heavy debt I have in the world. I should like to pay it;' and he laid the bank notes before my brother, and requested him to count them over.

"I cannot take this

money,' said my brother.

"The old man became alarmed. 'I have cast simple interest for twelve years and a little over,' said the old man. 'I will pay you compound interest if you say so. That debt ought to have been paid long ago; but your father, sir, was very indulgent; he knew I had been unfortunate, and told me not to worry about it.'

"My brother then set the whole matter plainly before him and, taking the bills, returned them to the old man, telling him, that although our father left no formal will, he had recommended to his children to destroy certain notes, due bills, and other evidences of debt, and release those who might be legally bound to pay them. For a moment the worthy old man seemed to be stupefied. After he had collected himself, and wiped a few tears from his eyes, he stated, that from the time he had heard of our father's death, he had raked and scraped, and pinched and spared, to get the money together for the payment

By law, notes become outlawed in six years from the time of payment.

The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds,
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;
Nor less composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their silent course.

VARIETY.

The earth was made so various, that the mind
Of desultory man, studious of change

And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
Prospects, however lovely, may be seen
Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight,
Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off
Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes.

VANITY OF EARTHLY POSSESSIONS.

All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades
Like the fair flower dishevelled in the wind:
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream:
The man we celebrate must find a tomb,
And we, that worship him, ignoble graves.
Nothing is proof against the general curse
Of vanity, that scizes all below.

The only amaranthine* flower on earth
Is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth.

*Amaranthine, unfading.

Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne

A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,

But urged by storms along its slippery way,-
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art.

EVENING.

Come, evening, once again, season of peace;
Return, sweet evening, and continue long!
Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,
With matron step slow-moving, while the Night
Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed
In letting fall the curtain of repose

On bird and beast, the other charged for man
With sweet oblivion of the cares of day;
Not sumptuously adorned, not needing aid,
Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems;
A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine,
Not less than hers, not worn indeed on high,
With ostentatious pageantry, but set
With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,
Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.

WISDOM AND Knowledge.

Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass,

The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place,