"Besides, he rendered me a service once, or rather put me out of one. But let us to the matter in hand. See," said he, opening the casket with a touch, "here is gold sufficient for your purpose, put it up; and now I have no more to say, but," drawing out a small mirror, "to show you the consequences of your wish."

Filippo took the mirror; and, although night was upon surrounding objects, the scene before him was presented in the aspect of the brightest sunshine.

He saw a cottage beautifully situated, within a short distance from his own, affording comfort even bordering on luxury, and he recognised a much-loved face, though changed by an appearance of contentment and renovated health. He exclaimed with joy, "This is my father! these are the happy effects of my wish! Where the heart is in the right we seldom err." Seeing his guide look grave, Filippo proceeded: "Have I not done a positive good? Have I not improved his condition?"

"His external condition is improved," said he of the speculum; "but your father was already possessed of the best gifts--and for the house of clay it matters little. But you are going to be farther gratified. Do you know this youth?"

"Truly I do-Rinaldo, the idlest of the village school-boys. Parde Geronimo can make nothing of him; though he designs him for the church."

ment not her; lament her offspring. See that wayward boy, the pupil of a lawless father! Oh for some warning voice to stop him short of parricide! See, how he leads the troops of ruffians-his father falls-the country is laid waste the murdered travellers

Filippo placed his hands before his eyes."My lord," said he

"Your fellow servant, Filippo."

"Well then, my friend! spare me a farther view of these bad men; my father's pillow has cost a price I little thought of. But there are other children-they may prove the benefactors of their race and counterpoise this sad history.

"I will spare your feelings," said the old man. But a small part, however, of the evil has met your view, and of the earthly consequences alone. But look at this picture." It was a studious youth. He sate beside the midnight lamp, and explored the depths of science, and gave his labors to the enlightening of his fellow men. But his own time was short-the active mind wore out the frail body, and he died in the flower of his age; but he had immortalized himself, on earth, and made discoveries that profitted remote posterity; and his memory was honored, and his family ennobled by his name. His projects were soon realized. Regions were discovered in the far south, and savage men that dwelt there, and mines of gold and gems; and conquests were made, and savage strength was compelled to labor; and blood streamed, and ruins smoked--and Fillippo, again cried

“Well, by your means his destiny is changed. His parents procured him the employ-"Mercy?" ment given up by your father; he is anxious to marry, and forsakes his vocation,"

"So much the better; he would have disgraced it. And see-he is the spouse of Giula, la bella Giula. Poor fellow! I have befriended him unknowingly and unknown. I can say, with pleasure, I have wished wisely and well."

"Look again, Filippo."

The mirror now presented in succession three very lovely children, the offspring of this young couple; and he saw feasting and congratulating friends, and rustic mirth, and the most serious thankfulness of the age. And the children became strong and beautiful, and gave token of intelligence beyond their years. Filippo was fast rising in his own esteem. "These children promise well," said he," and but for me they had not known existence.See how that lovely girl approaches womanhood; with what luxuriant beauty has not nature decked her! Pity she is of low degree! If a wish of mine could ennoble her she has it." "She needs it not," replied the boatman; she is already destined to exalted rank."

Filippo's countenance brightened. "See," said he, "that young noble fall at her feet. She is now mistress of his noble domains, and disgraces not her exalted station-she is amiable and virtuous."

"Yes," replied his companion "but her reward is not on earth. See her lord scowl on that young man beside her, and sign to have poison infused into his cup, now behold that gloomy chamber, dropping with damps, where she is left to languish out her days. But la

"There remains yet another child," observed the fisherman, "and his lot is cast in the privacy of domestic life. He marries, and becomes the cultivator of his own farm. His wife is kind and faithful, his children dutiful and useful. See, they surround his table like the olive branches-and he calls himself happy. But time rolls on: his children disperse to settle in the world. Two sons are cut off by the war, and fill an honored tomb: three daughters marry, each in a distant province, a numerous family on narrow means. His wife is spared to him for many years, but she precedes him to the grave; and enfeebled by old age, he is no longer able to procure even a subsistence. He becomes an object of public compassion, and ends his life in an alms house. No familiar face appears beside his dying bed, but callous hirelings impatient of his lingering breath. He thinks upon his wife, and the dear circle of affectionate children accustomed to anticipate his wishes

"Oh cease!" cried Filippo, for his tears flowed at the picture. "Spare me the sight of that old man. Blind and presumptuous, why did I attempt to adjust the balance of the All-wise!"

"There are no wishers where I inhabit," said the boatman, "and I gave up my judgment in Nero's time. But take your treasure, for the morning breaks, and I must go far hence."

Filippo drew back. "Return the fatal treasure to the deep," said he, "and row me back to the shore. I have learned a lesson of

From the London Metropolitan.

"We parted in silence, we parted by night,

On the banks of that lonely river,
Where the fragrant limes there boughs unite,
We met and we-parted forever!
The night-bird sang, and the stars above
Told many a touching story,

Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love,
Where the soul wears its mantle of glory.

We parted in silence-Our cheeks were wet
With the tears that were past controlling;
We yowed we would never-no never, forget-
And those vows at the timejwere consoling..
But the lips that echoed the vow of mine
Are as cold as that lonely river;

And that eye, the spirit's shrine

Has shrouded its fires forever.

And now on the midnight sky I look,

And my heart grows full to weeping, Each star is to me a sealed book,

Some tale of that loved one keeping ;
We parted in silence-we parted in tears,
On the banks of that lonely river:

But the color and bloom of those by gone years,
Shall hang o'er its waters forever."

There is a charm in grief; the swelling heart Is sooth'd by pouring from its inmost fount The gushing stream, when sacred friendship weeps. What a delightful theme is friendship? and what a blessing to possess a true friend, who will smile with us in joy, and weep with us in sorrow. I once had a true and affectionate friend, who was dear to my heart, but she now lies slumbering in the cold grave in solitude and silence, and flowers are now blooming over her resting place. Memory often recalls that dear familiar face-the voice whose accent was the harbinger of joy, again thrills my heart, and in imagination the warm clasp of friendship is restored. But, alas! does not memory recall some painful moment-some sad parling?

Catharine N- and myself were schoolmates at H. When I first knew her, I did not appreciate her worth; but so much loveliness and amiability of character could not long pass unnoticed, even by so insensible a heart as mine. Months glided away almost imperceptibly in her society-and soon came the parting hour. Oh! that moment will never be forgotten, when I bade her a last farewell; nor will her parting words ever es"If I never see you cape my recollection. again dear friend, may we meet in a fairer world than this." How little did I then think

it was a last farewell. A short time after a

letter came bearing the seal of death, it announced the death of my much loved friend. She was too fair a flower for earth, and was transplanted to the never fading garden of paradise. But although she is gone to that bourn from which no traveller returns; yet her memory will be cherished by me with ap affectionate regard, and her friendly admonitions will ever be fresh in my memory. I know that death has a license that reaches from the "cradle to the grave," that no age, nor situation can exempt us from its arrows; but when he cuts down the young, whose brow begins to blossom with youthful hopes, in whose existence so many of the "fond and delicate fibres of other hearts are interwoven," we aro apt to murmur.

I have lost many friends, and some in the bloom of youth I have wept over their cold and lifeless forms. I have dropped a tear upon the mound that buries them from my sight, and their deaths have shown me, how slender a defence is youth, health and love, to the unsparing hand of the destroyer. We may laugh, dance and sing, but we are doomed to dieand sooner or later, all must fall.

Perhaps we are young, and our fancy is almost ignorant of death, and our bosom is full of far tenderer emotions than the loathsome grave presents. I have seen such, and nearly doubted that they could die-how vain and idle have been my dreams of the future.Alas! many a mournful lesson is written for me in the solitary church yard. I never more doubt that death will strike the young, or that youthful beauty will feed so insatiate a monster, and that they will be seen, and heard, and known no more upon the stage of the busy world.

It is pleasant, though mournful, to turn awhile from the anxieties of the present moment, and recall the images that lie slumbering in the "narrow house," appointed for all living. Memory has the power to bring before us, persons who bear some faint resemblance to others, long since mouldered into dust. When memory exerts her power, we live on the past, and feel that that which intervened had been a painful dream. P.

J.

INTERPRETATION OF MOTIVES.-There is no word or action but may be taken with two hands; either with the right hand of charitable construction, or the sinister interprelation, of malice and suspicion; and all things do succeed as they are taken. To construe an evil action well, is but a pleasing and profitable deceit to myself; but to misconstrue a good thing is a treble wrong, to myself, the action, and the author.-Bishop Heber.

The Bachelor's Dream.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.
"Visions have hovered o'er his sleep,
Light, fairy forms have bent above him;
And eyes smiled on him, like the deep

Expressive ones of those that love him.
Wild, briliant eyes through raven hair,
Clustering upon the bosom's snow;
And thin, white fingers, like cool air,

Have passed along his fever'd brow!"

I had a friend-a bachelor of fifty, a kind free-harted fellow, who frequently amused me with his allusion to the events of his earlier years. Wearied with the lonliness and silence of his existence, he found a certain relief in the treasured memories of the past. Sorrow and joy perhaps equally mingled in these re. membrances, like the shadow and sunshine of an April landscape: yet both were treasured up and loved and mused over.

"I had a dream last night," said he, as I entered his apartment one cold moring in winter-"an ugly dream-ugh!—my very blood chills to think of it!" His teeth chattered as he spoke, although there was a glowing fire in the grate! and he had a thick wrapper thrown over his sholders. "Sit down," continued he," and I will tell you my dream, if I can get through with it without freezing both of us into ice statues." "Go on," said I seating myself comfortably by the fire-"I apprehend no danger from the recital of your dream."

Well-last evening I was all alone-'twas a bitter cold evening too-and I as usual— when the present is not particularly agreeable, amused myself by thinking over the past. You connot imagine what a world of memory passed before me! But as the mind's images thickened, they grew fainter-the dim light of the lamp grew dimmer before me-the howling of the north wind died away in my ear-and I fell asleep in my arm chair.

For a time my visions were broken and vague-yet they bore somewhat of the impression of my waking ones-half-formed, halt-seen faces, once familiar, stared around me-and dim and hurried perceptions of familiar scenery passed before me, like the changes of a phantasmagora. Suddenly the scene was changed. I seemed wandering over a vast plain of ice-anon, struggling in the rift of a Swiss avalanch, or riding on the steep pinnacle of an ice berg, or standing in a swift current of cold water, with a raw wind blowing and the ice stiffning around my body; and then the dimness and incoherence passed away,and a new order of visions came before me. I was standing in a familiar looking dwelling, at least its proportion seemed so-but it was entirely composed of ice-cold, shining, unmelting ice. The trees which stood without, I knew them by their knarled limbs and stooping bodies as familiar to my youthful days were also of ice-limbs and foliage, and trunk of the same. I was treading upon an icy floor -the ceiling-the doors and windows and household furniture were ice-nothing but clear, glittering ice.

I stood in the wintery parlor shaking with cold, when a figure slowly approached me.I knew it in an instant. It was the mother of my first love-the Caroline whom I had

so often told you of. There were the same figure, proportion, dress, &c.-the same pair of huge spectacles on her face, which characterized her thirty years ago. She came förward and bowed, without relaxing a muscle of her countenance, and pointing to a sofa behind me. Hardly had I seated myself, when the door again opened and Caroline herself entered; and advanced slowly and without any sign of motion towards me, although she evidently recognized me, and held out her hand in a sort of mechanical welcome. I rose and clasped it in my own. It was cold-cold as a winter tomb-stone-and as the icy fingers fastened about my own,I shuddered as if a spectre had welcomed me to the world of shadows. She was ice like every thing around her.

The cottage, the old lady, and my long loved Caroline passed away, and I found myself in a beautiful mansion in a far off land.There too, the spell of winter rested like death upon every thing around me. The pillars-the splendid galleries, the magnificent apartments, and the servants, and the attendants were all ice in that winter of desolation. Yet, I recognised the scene of my deepest attachment-the dwelling of her, whose beautiful image never ceased to haunt me, from the moment of our first meeting. And I saw her, the magnificent girl!—and she threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me-it was like the kiss of a marble statue-the twining of the arms of the dead around the neck of the living—a cold and icy communion. And then, I seemed myself to take the nature of all around me, and I became as ice, all save my heart, which still beat beneath its unconscious body. And we sat down together, two icy statues, mocking one another with the look of warm and kindly affection. And she would lay her cold hand in my own, and bend her head, with its rich but unmoving mass of ringlets towards me, and her eye beamed constantly with a smile like that with which she had always welcomed me ;-and yet, I knew that it was an awful mocking; and that the warmth and the passion of love and life were not there!

I awoke. My lamp was like a small spark, it had burned so low-the fire had gone out and the moonlight as it streamed through the unshuttered windows, revealed the black and cold bars of the grate before me; the doors were ajar, and the current of air, bitter with frost, was sweeping through the room. For a time indeed, I almost imagined my dream a thing of reality, for I was actually stupified with the cold, and have not yet half recovered from it." My friend as he spoke drew his cloak closer round him, with a sort of involuntary shudder.

"Now," continued he, "I have determined to live alone no longer; I will marry, let the consequences be as they may. Rather than suffer, again, what I did last night, and all for the want of a companion, I would marry the veriest termagant in Christendom."

He kept his word. He is now a married man; and what is more and better a happy one. He has a wife who loves him, and children who bless him, and I have never since his marriage, heard him complain of his frozen dreams.