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the fire in their little parlor reading some book of devotion, that the church-chimes announced the first quarter past nine o'clock without her daughter's making her appearance. The noise she had made overhead in walking to and fro to her drawers, dressing-table, &c. had ceased about half an hour ago, and her mother supposed she was then engaged at her glass adjusting her hair and preparing her complexion.

"Well, I wonder what can make Charlotte so very careful about her dress to-night!" exclaimed Mrs. J -, removing her eyes from the book and gazing thoughtfully at the fire-"Oh! it must be because young Lieutenant N- is to be there. Well, I was

young myself once, and it's very excusable in Charlotte-heigh-ho!" She heard the wind howling so dismally without, that she drew together the coals of her brisk fire, and was laying down the poker when the clock of church struck the second quarter after nine.

"Why, what in the world can Charlotte be doing all this while?" she again inquired. She listened-"I have not heard her moving for the last three-quarters of an hour! I'll call the maid and ask." She rung the bell, and the servant appeared. "Betty, Miss J- is not gone yet, is she?"

"No, ma'am," replied the girl; "I took up the curling-irons only about a quarter of an hour ago, as she had put one of her curls out; and she said she should soon be ready. She's burst her new muslin dress behind, and that has put her into a way, ma'am." "Go up to her room, then, Betty, and see if she wants any thing; and tell her it's half-past nine o'clock," said Mrs. J The servant accordingly went up-stairs, and knocked at the bedroom-door once, twice, thrice, but received no answer. There was a dead silence, except when the wind shook the window. Could Miss J— have fallen asleep? Oh, impossible! She knocked again, but unsuccessfully as before. She became a little flustered, and, after a moment's pause, opened the door and entered. There was Miss J sitting at the glass. "Why, la, ma'am," commenced Betty, in a petulant tone, walking up to her, "here have I been knocking for these five minutes, and-" Betty staggered horrorstruck to the bed, and uttering a loud shriek alarmed Mrs. Jwho instantly tottered up-stairs, almost palsied with fright. Miss was dead!


I was there within a few minutes, for my house was not more than two streets distant. It was a stormy night in March; and the desolate aspect of things without-deserted streets, the dreary howling of the wind, and the incessant pattering of the rain-contributed to cast a gloom over my mind, when connected with the intelligence of the awful event that had summoned me out, which was deepened into horror by the spectacle I was doomed to witness. On reaching the house, I found Mrs. J in violent hysterics,


surrounded by several of her neighbors, who had been called in to her assistance. I repaired instantly to the scene of death, and beheld what I shall never forget. The room was occupied by a whitecurtained bed. There was but one window, and before it was a table, on which stood a looking-glass hung with a little white drapery; and the various paraphernalia of the toilet lay scattered about-pins, brooches, curling-papers, ribands, gloves, &c. An arm-chair was drawn to this table, and in it sat Miss Jdead. Her head rested upon her right hand, her elbow supported by the table; while her left hung down by her side, grasping a pair of curling-irons. Each of her wrists was encircled by a showy gilt bracelet. She was dressed in a white muslin frock, with a little bordering of blonde. Her face was turned towards the glass, which, by the light of the expiring candle, reflected, with frightful fidelity, the clammy fixed features, daubed over with rouge and carminethe fallen lower jaw, and the eyes directed full into the glass with a cold, dull stare, that was appalling. On examining the counte nance more narrowly, I thought I detected the traces of a smirk of conceit and self-complacency, which not even the palsying touch of death could wholly obliterate. The hair of the corpse, all smooth and glossy, was curled with elaborate precision; and the skinny, sallow neck was encircled with a string of glistening pearls. The ghastly visage of death thus leering through the tinselry of fashion -"the vain show" of artificial joy-was a horrible mockery of the fooleries of life!

Indeed, it was a most humiliating and shocking spectacle. Poor creature! struck dead in the very act of sacrificing at the shrine of female vanity! She must have been dead for some time, perhaps for twenty minutes or half an hour, when I arrived-for nearly all the animal heat had deserted the body, which was rapidly stiffening. I attempted, but in vain, to draw a little blood from the arm. Two or three women present proceeded to remove the corpse to the bed for the purpose of laying it out. What strange passiveness! No resistance offered to them while straightening the bent right arm, and binding the jaws together with a faded white riband which Miss J had destined for her waist that evening.

On examination of the body, we found that death had been occasioned by disease of the heart. Her life might have been protracted, possibly for years, had she but taken my advice and that of her mother. I have seen many hundreds of corpses, as well in the calm composure of natural death as mangled and distorted by violence; but never have I seen so startling a satire upon human vanity, so repulsive, unsightly, and loathsome a spectacle as a corpse dressed for a ball!


CHARLES MACKAY, one of the most popular authors of the day, was born at Perth, Scotland, about the year 1812. He fitted himself for the bar, and practised a short time; but his love of literature predominated over "briefs" and "forms," and he became an author by profession. In 1834 he published a small volume of poems, which was the means of his being introduced to the editor of the "Morning Chronicle," and he soon became connected with that paper, and continued in that position for nine years. In 1844 he became editor of the "Glasgow Argus;" and in 1846 the university of that city conferred upon him the title of Doctor of Laws.

Mr. Mackay's chief prose works are, "Longbeard, Lord of London," a romance; "The Thames and its Tributaries;" "Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions;" and "The Scenery and Poetry of the English Lakes." He has also written many excellent articles in "Chambers' Journal," and it is said he now writes the chief leading articles for the "Illustrated London News." His poetical works are, "The Hope of the World;""Egeria, the Spirit of Nature;" "Salamandrine, or Love and Immortality;" "Legends of the Isles and other Poems;" "Voices from the Mountains" "Town Lyrics;" and "Voices from the Crowd."

Mr. Mackay is emphatically the lyric poet of progress. He writes with great animation and deep feeling, and no one can fail to see that he has a true hearta deeply philanthropic spirit; and that he has a firm faith in the ultimate happiness of the race,-in the reign of universal love. Of his "Voices from the Crowd," he himself says: "Those lyrical pieces were for the most part written in a time of political and social agitation—to aid, as far as rhymes could aid, the efforts of the zealous and able men who were endeavoring to create a public opinion in favor of untaxed food, and of free trade and free intercourse among the nations of the world. They were written as plainly as possible, that they might appeal to the people, in the people's language, and express the wants of the many in phraseology broad, simple, and intelligible as the occasion."


"What dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower?
Is the day breaking? comes the wish'd-for hour?
Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand,
If the bright morning dawns upon the land."

"The stars are clear above me, scarcely one
Has dimm'd its rays in reverence to the sun;

But yet I see on the horizon's verge,

Some fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge."

"And is that all, oh, watcher on the tower?

Look forth again; it must be near the hour.

Dost thou not see the snowy mountain copes,

And the green woods beneath them on the slopes?"

"A mist envelops them; I cannot trace
Their outline; but the day comes on apace.
The clouds roll up in gold and amber flakes,

And all the stars grow dim. The morning breaks."
"We thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower;
But look again; and tell us, hour by hour,
All thou beholdest; many of us die

Ere the day comes; oh, give them a reply!"
I hear a song,

"I hope, but cannot tell.

Vivid as day itself, and clear and strong,
As of a lark-young prophet of the noon-
Pouring in sunlight his seraphic tune."

"What doth he say-oh, watcher on the tower?
Is he a prophet? Doth the dawning hour
Inspire his music? Is his chant sublime,
Fill'd with the glories of the Future time?"
"He prophesies ;-his heart is full ;-his lay
Tells of the brightness of a peaceful day-
A day not cloudless, nor devoid of storm,
But sunny for the most, and clear and warm."
"We thank thee, watcher on the lonely tower,
For all thou tellest. Sings he of an hour
When Error shall decay, and Truth grow strong,
And Right shall rule supreme and vanquish Wrong?"

"He sings of Brotherhood, and joy and peace,
Of days when jealousies and hate shall cease;
When war shall die, and man's progressive mind
Soar as unfetter'd as its God design'd."

"Well done! thou watcher on the lonely tower!
Is the day breaking? dawns the happy hour?
We pine to see it :-tell us, yet again,
If the broad daylight breaks upon the plain?"

"It breaks-it comes-the misty shadows fly:-
A rosy radiance gleams upon the sky;
The mountain-tops reflect it calm and clear;
The plain is yet in shade, but day is near."


There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming :

We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,

But thought's a weapon stronger;
We'll win our battle by its aid ;—
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:

The pen shall supersede the sword,
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord,
In the good time coming.

Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,
And be acknowledged stronger;

The proper impulse has been given ;—
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
War in all men's eyes shall be
A monster of iniquity

In the good time coming.
Nations shall not quarrel then,

To prove which is the stronger; Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ;Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:

Hateful rivalries of creed

Shall not make their martyrs bleed
In the good time coming.
Religion shall be shorn of pride,
And flourish all the stronger;
And Charity shall trim her lamp ;-
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:

The people shall be temperate,
And shall love instead of hate,
In the good time coming.
They shall use, and not abuse,
And make all virtue stronger,
The reformation has begun ;-
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:

Let us aid it all we can,

Every woman, every man,

The good time coming.

Smallest helps, if rightly given,

Make the impulse stronger;

'Twill be strong enough one day;Wait a little longer.


There are three preachers, ever preaching, Fill'd with eloquence and power.

One is old, with locks of white,

Skinny as an anchorite;

And he preaches every hour

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