him, and waits for those that are to follow. In fact, he hardly dies;-the living transcripts of his face and figure are still moving upon the earth; his name survives, embodied in another self; his blood is still flowing through human veins, and may continue its crimson current till the great wheel shall stand still. What posthumous memorial so vital as this? But children are often wayward and mischievous, and it is not less painful than necessary to correct them. I cannot deny it; for unfortunately the proof is now before me; and all this presents a painful picture to a father. But is it nothing to anticipate the hour of reconciliation, when, with sparkling eyes, my children shall leap to my bosom? Is it nothing to know from experience that the tide of affection will gush more abundantly from this temporary interruption, and that I shall again be able to exclaim with old Dornton in the play---" Who would not be a father?" Is it nothing that but I have de scribed this happy moment till I can wait for its arrival no longer. God bless ye, my darlings; come to my arms at once! While I have been wiping my children's eyes and my own, one of those involuntary thoughts which shoot across the brain like meteors led me to ask, what might be the future fate and fortune of those whom I was embracing. Affecting speculation! Is it possible that these vivacious beings, bounding about in an intoxication of delight from the mere luxury of existence, can become old, and querulous, and paralytic, and crawl along upon crutches? Stale morality, to rake in the grave for dusty mementos of our evanescency: to hold up a dead man's scull before our eyes, as if we drank our wine out of it, and wished to hob-a-nob; to beat the devil's tattoo upon our memories with a skeleton's drumsticks! If we wish to stamp this moral upon our hearts, let us compare man with himself; let us contemplate the death of the living,-of those who have survived themselves, and become their own tombs. Never did I feel so acutely the vanity of life, as when, in a palsied and superannuated old woman, I was told I beheld the celebrated beauty upon whom Lord Chesterfield had written the well-known song-- Fair Kitty, beautiful and young, But there is one pang, and an agonizing one it is, from which bachelors are happily exempt. Heaven sometimes reclaims the most beautiful of our angels for itself. When our children have just fastened themselves to our hearts by a thousand ties, Death, then, indeed, "a foul ugly phantom," will stretch forth his bony hand to wrench them from us, and almost tear up our hearts by the roots in the struggle ! Paternity is as garrulous as old age. God help the reader, when both are combined! Under such circumstances, it is hardly fair to visit him with the fond babblings of a mother, and yet I cannot refrain from concluding with the following maternal effusion: ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. "Tis hard, dear babe, to think that for ever we must part, That thou again wilt never be press'd unto my heart; For tho' thou wert but young, thou wert made to us most dear, How often with thy father have I sat beside thy bed, How sweet it was to listen to each newly prattled word, Fix'd awake, And nightly on their sleep stole a silent kiss to take? In every thing there lingers some thought of thee behind, I feel thy little fingers still round my own entwined; Thy trinkets, toys, and dresses, we are forced to hide them all; But if such sights of sorrow can our sympathies excite, MILLER REDIVIVUS ; OR, AN OLD JOKE IN A NEW DRESS. Mrs. Rose Grob. NONE would have known that Siegmund Grob But that he died, and left the job Of Tombstone-making to an Undertaker; (The Sexton of Whitechapel Church will show it,) Then carved the following couplet from his own"STOP, READER, STOP, AND GIVE A SOB FOR SIEGMUND GROB!" Grob's Widow had been christen'd Rose, But why, no human being knows, Roses, which quickly fled in scorn, To guard her lips from kisses. She relish'd tea and butter'd toast, Better than being snubb'd and school'd; Liking no less to rule the roast, Than feast upon the roast she ruled- Now, as she was a truly loving wife, As well as provident in all her dealings, Two thousand pounds, besides her savings, Accordingly in Mile End Road She quickly chose a snug retreat; 'Twas quite a pastoral abode, Its situation truly sweet! Although it stood in Prospect Row, 'Twas luckily the corner house, With a side-window and a bow: Next to it was the Milkman's yard, whose cows Under the very casement stood to low. That was a pleasant window altogether, And when there was no dust or foggy weather, The Monument you might explore, And see, without a glass, the people Across the road, half down a street, You caught a field, with hoofs well beaten ; For cattle there were put to eat, Till they were wanted to be eaten. Then as for shops, want what you will, A Tallow Chandler's nearer still; And as to stages by the door, Besides the Patent Coach, or Dandy, A dozen in an hour or more One dust was never gone before Another came :-'twas monstrous handy! |