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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,
And wild as colts untamed-

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,
By a little age of sickness, anxiety, and fear.-

How often with thy father have I sat beside thy bed,
How we look'd at one another when thy colour came and fled;
For death we both forboded, though we dared not tell our fears,
And we turn'd aside our faces to hide the coming tears.

How sweet it was to listen to each newly prattled word,
And to see thy dark eyes glisten with the look of health restored;
But, alas! thy beauty's blossom could scarce unfold its charms,
When the cruel hand of death came to pluck thee from our arms.
No stranger without shrinking could have seen thine eyes, still
bright,
open without winking, when thy spirit took its flight ;
Then what must we have suffer'd, who so watch'd them when

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;
Not a night but in my dreams I can hear thy little cries;
I start awake-and think-and the tears suffuse my eyes.

Thy trinkets, toys, and dresses, we are forced to hide them all;
They waken new distresses by the scenes that they recall;
And every lovely child whom we happen to accost
Brings thrilling recollections of the beauty we have lost.-

But if such sights of sorrow can our sympathies excite,
From others we may borrow consolation and delight;
And when we mourn the joys of which our bosoms are bereft,
Let us think with grateful hearts of the many that are left.

MILLER REDIVIVUS ;

OR, AN OLD JOKE IN A NEW DRESS.

Mrs. Rose Grob.

NONE would have known that Siegmund Grob
Lived Foreman to a Sugar-baker,

But that he died, and left the job

Of Tombstone-making to an Undertaker;
Who, being a Mason also, was a Poet,-
So he engraved a skull upon the stone,

(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,
Unless when young she might disclose,
Like other blooming Misses,

Roses, which quickly fled in scorn,
But left upon her chin the thorn,

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-
And though profuse of tongue withal,
Of cash was economical.

Now, as she was a truly loving wife,

As well as provident in all her dealings,
She made her German spouse insure his life,
Just as a little hedge against her feelings-
So that when Siegmund died, in her distress
She call'd upon the Phoenix for redress.

Two thousand pounds, besides her savings,
Was quite enough all care to drown;
No wonder then she soon felt cravings
To quit the melancholy city,
And take a cottage out of town,
And live genteel and pretty.

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
When there were neither grains nor chaff to browse,

Under the very casement stood to low.

That was a pleasant window altogether,
It raked the road a mile or more,

And when there was no dust or foggy weather,

The Monument you might explore,

And see, without a glass, the people
Walking round and round its steeple.

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,
You hadn't twenty steps to go,—
There was a Butcher's in the row,

A Tallow Chandler's nearer still;

And as to stages by the door,

Besides the Patent Coach, or Dandy,
There were the Mile-End, Stratford, Bow,

A dozen in an hour or more

One dust was never gone before

Another came :-'twas monstrous handy!

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