rafters and ungraceful pulpit, but to me they had a charm, which all the gilding and velvet in the world cannot inspire; for from the rude beams were re-echoed the voices of heartfelt piety and fervent prayer, and from the pulpit however misshapen, descended words of consolation and encouragement, expressions of love, joy, and hope, and promises of future felicity. Though no cushioned seat nor curtained wall was spread before me, I had the delight of beholding happy countenances lighted up by a clear conscience and a pure heart; and though no pealing organ swelled its notes in accompaniment, those strains of praise rose as loudly and as sweetly, because they were the tones of sincerity.

A short farewell and a kind look dissolved the meeting.

SCENE FROM AN UNPUBLISHED PLAY.

DICK, solus.

Ar-if a viper coiled upon her doorstep-
If the broad river were a stream of fire
And I must cross it on a raft of tinder-
If Cerberus stood keeper of the toll,
And I were penniless-I'd see the girl.
A vixen and a jilt-but still I love her-
An arrant baggage, who would tear my letters
To paper up her hair-but still I love her.
Not that the rose is fairer on her cheek,
Not that the light is brighter in her eye,
Than half the seraph sisterhood can boast.
Where lurks the influence that thus can steal,
Like the sweet music of a prisoned lyre,
Through all the marble barriers of the heart?
So are we tempered, that we know not why
We love or hate, we follow or we shun.
Is it in outward seeming? do we stoop
To meet the bending statue? do we press
The lips that glow unbreathing on the canvass?
Nay, are there not a thousand living shapes
That are like shadows to the listless soul,
Lifeless and pulseless? yet we turn from them
To one less fair, and think her born of heaven.
Who sees the bow when Love lets loose the shaft?
A plague upon the nice anatomy

That cuts up feeling into curves and angles.
Her eye is blue-and so too is her bonnet-

Her forehead white-so is a sheet of paper-
Her hair is golden-I can buy enough
Of just such hair to fill a bushel basket-
Her voice is smooth-why so is milk and water;
And this is what you get for analyzing.

But take her in the whole, form, voice, and motion,
I love the compound.-If she loves not me,
Why, she has lost a-mighty pretty fellow;
A six-foot man, with most effulgent whiskers,
And two good hands to put in empty pockets.
I wonder how my grandam stood the frost.
How the old spider hangs upon her cobweb!
They say her will is made, and when she tumbles,
Perhaps a pension to her gray-beard tom-cat,
Some small post mortem acts of piety,

To crutch her poor rheumatic soul upon,
And I shall dust the dear old lady's guineas.
Ha! when we rattle in our own good tandem,
And crack the ivory-handled whip we paid for,
There'll be a stir among the plumes and ribbons!
Lightly he treads who steps on golden slippers-
Sweetly he speaks whose purse has music in it.
Pray die, dear grandam; we will have you buried
All nice and decent, and we 'll have a sermon
To call you pretty names, and buy some kerchiefs
To soak up bitter tears, and feed your tom-cat,
As if he never scratched us-curse upon him.
[Enter six Bores.]
ALL. A pleasant evening—
DICK.

Yes a pleasant evening,
A devilish pleasant evening out of doors,

1st BORE. What have you here to eat? I am not hungry, But I might taste a pie; I am not thirsty,

DICK.

But I might drink to please these honest fellows;
Or, as I mean to sit, I'll smoke a little.

We're out of victual and we 're out of wine,
There's water in the pail-smoke and be d-

2d BORE. Lend me a book, I mean to sit a little,
And I am not in mood for conversation.

-d.

DICK. Here's Worcester's Walker's Johnson's Dictionary; Open at Ass-a very fitting subject.

3d BORE. I saw your very worthy grandmother

DICK.

A short time since; she seemed extremely hearty.

O, what a blessing such a woman is !

In all the circle of domestic love

There is no greater—

No, there is no greater

Just as you say-a most eternal blessing.

4th BORE.

I'll take a nap-you'll wake me in an hour,

Or two at farthest-so I'll shut the door.

[Goes into the bedroom.]

DICK. And I will lock it. Sleep till bed-bugs wake you. [Locks the door.]

5th BORE. Come boy, let's have a game or two of chequers Before we try the chess, and then backgammon, Or else a little whist-just run along

And order up some claret and some oysters. DICK. My board is broken and my foot is lame. 6th BORE. I think of making something of a call, And so I'll take my coat and waistcoat off, Wait a few hours until the rest are gone And I will read you something I have written. [Cry of fire.]

FIVE BORES. O, there's a row-good night-we 'll call again. [Exeunt five Bores.]

DICK, solus. Go, blessed boobies, and the devil singe you-
Sleep, snoring lubber, and the night-fiend gnaw you-
Another step before the door is bolted!
[Enter Tom.]

TOM.

Ah, soft Lothario, with thy lady cheek,
Didst thou exhale upon us from a dew-drop?
Or wast thou wafted on an evening zephyr?
I hang myself to-morrow-Julia 's bolted!
Off in a tangent with that ugly captain!
I did not care for Julia-I was tired
Of all her tricks and fancies-but to think
Of such a rocket tied to such a stick
Would make one hang himself for human folly.
So once again, for universal woman!

Does the new coat sit close about the waist?
DICK. Ay, put a pismire's girdle on a porpoise,
It will sit closer than a sailor's jacket.
Now diet for a while on water-gruel,
And take a dose or two of bleaching salts,
And run a razor round the barren course,

And when you're hanged for stealing, men will say
He was a pale, thin pigmy, with a beard.

TOм. Why, man, you 're biting as a seedling radish.
Did Clara pout? nay, do not look so rosy,
Her mother told me all about your love,
And asked me of your prospects and
your standing;
I told her-but no matter what I told her.
DICK. The wrinkled hag-and thou, infernal imp,
What didst thou say ?

Том.

I only now remember

Some general hints about your evil habits,
Your sad propensity to gin and water,
Your singular asperity of temper-
I did not call you absolutely dirty,

But only rather slovenly and careless

For rank, that you was like a serpent's rattle,

That makes some noise, though very near the tail—

That as to money, save the bills you owed,
You had but little to remind you of it.
I did not like it, but it was my duty,
And I am honest, so I tell you all.

DICK. Now, fellow, I will mash thee to a pumice,
Or beat thee to a tumor-

TOM.

Hold a moment

It was all stuff-I never saw the woman;
But since you seemed in such a frosty mood,
I fired a squib at your philosophy

And laughed to see it catch-so keep your beating
To make your children grow.-Now come along
And drown your anger in a good potation.
DICK. And so you curry people down with lies,
And smooth it with a julep. But I'll go,
And leave that sleeping carrion in the bed-room,
Among his brother vermin,-peace be with him.
[Exeunt.]

STANZAS.

STRANGE! that one lightly whispered tone
Is far, far sweeter unto me,

Than all the sounds that kiss the earth,
Or breathe along the sea;

But Lady, when thy voice I greet,
Not heavenly music seems so sweet.

I look upon the fair blue skies,

And nought but empty air, I see;
But when I turn me to thine eyes,
It seemeth unto me

Ten thousand angels spread their wings
Within those little azure rings.

The lily hath a softer leaf,

Than ever western wind hath fanned,
But thou shalt have the tender flower,
So I may take thy hand;

That little hand to me doth yield
More joy than all the broidered field.

O lady! there be many things

That seem right fair, below, above.
But sure not one among them all,
Is half so sweet as love-
Let us not pay our vows alone,
But join two altars both in one.

A LETTER FROM LUKE LOCKFAST.

New York, June 28, 1830.

SALVE! my dear Editor-I have not seen you for two months; and, in the same line, vale !—I shall probably never see you again. How farest thou, and our four brethren? Yet why do I ask? for when, and how, can I be answered by you?

I received by the post, a day or two since, your fifth Number. As my absence from Cam. since last term is probably not generally known at College, still less beyond it, it will not be understood that you mean merely my apparition, by the Luke you introduced into your Notes and Notices,' as present at an editorial meeting. Make this point clearer in the next edition. It is strange-but during the whole of that very evening of the 25th of May, the evening of your meeting, I remained in a profound stupor, from my spirit having absented itself, in order to be with you. (What shocking Alexandrines you put into the poor soul's mouth!) Do you know whether this stupor is usually experienced by persons, whose spirits have been known to appear in a different locality from that of their bodily presence? Ah, why do I continue to ask you questions, which you will have no opportunity of answering?

Together with the Number, I received a whole bundle of the letters, which you seem to have been despatching, in all directions, at intervals of two days, ever since vacation, inquiring the causes of my absence, and supplicating my return. That return, dear friend, will never be; the cause of that absence you cannot divine. I AM IN LOVE. (!!! Ed.)

On the 9th day of last vacation, a memorable day to me, as I was passing through Tremont Street, I think they call it, the street in which two large, stone-fronted buildings stand over against each other, one, I believe, a theatre, and the other a hotel,-just as I was passing between these two noble buildings, at a quarter before five in the afternoon (and a blue-skyed and mellow-lighted afternoon it was)-I met a lady-a young lady---a girl, perhaps I should call her. I am thus particular as to time and place, because you will be willing to read any details I may be silly enough to take pleasure in recording; and this epistle is meant for your eye