Though we smiled, and our farewell seemed careless and brief, I turned from thy side with a passionate grief, With a dirge in my heart, and the burden it bore, "I shall see thee no more! I shall see thee no more !" Sad forebodings unbreathed in my bosom were kept, But alone with my God, ah, how wildly I wept ! For parted forever, our separate fate In silence and fear we were doomed to await, And whether our days should be lengthened or brief, They were powerless alike to bring hope or relief; Still the hours, weary hours, sadly chimed as before "I shall see thee no more! I shall see thee no more !"' O, fair was the morning, and heaven brightly smiled; The air was perfumed with the sweet-brier wild, With the fragrance of flowers and fields newly mown, Where the laborer turned the brown hay to the sun: And fresh was the breeze that swept over the hill, Where beneath the cool trees we were lingering still, Regretting to part, and at heart saying o'er, "I shall see thee no more, I shall see thee no more.'' Yet oft-times I seem to behold thee again, With the sunshine and roses around thee as then, While the soft air that played in the elm's leafy screen, Just stirred the brown locks on thy forehead se rene, And thy dark eyes bent on me in sorrow and love, Love that trial and time could but strengthen and prove, While the sigh on thy lip, with the smile which it wore, Seemed to mournfully say, "I shall see thee no more." Though Summer returns with her sunshine and showers; Her balm-breathing airs, and her music and flow ers; 'Neath the silver-leaved maple, or elm's lofty screen, Waving high in the sunlight its garlands of green, On the hill-side where often we wandered before, I shall see thee no more, I shall see thee no more. O'er the pomp of the season there passes a blight, With a faintness like death, and a wearisome pain That deep in my heart must forever remain !— Those who sleep in the grave Summer cannot restore, I shall see thee no more! I shall see thee no SYMPATHY. SYMPATHY is not, as some stoical hearts would have us believe, a false unmeaning sound,—a mere word, intended to captivate the sorrowing, suffering soul, but leave it destitute of peace and consolation. Those who have realized its worth, who know how it nerves the heart to endure, and plucks from sorrow its sharpest sting, will not thus desecrate it. Those who have sighed long and vainly for the sympathy of a kindred spirit, and having finally found it, will never tell you that it is worthless. Although fair and lovely may be the beauties of nature to their souls, yet far lovelier the tear of sympathy shed over the misfortunes of another; though sweet the murmurings of the wind as it floats in gentle zephyrs through the perfumed groves of Summer, and soft the tones that fall from friendship's lips, yet still sweeter and softer the tones of sympathy that speak to the oppressed heart, and bid it know it is cared for by one who would feign relieve it of its burden. If in God's vast creation there is aught claiming our highest love, it is the radiant glow proceeding from a sympathetic soul; if in the human heart, aught we should most admire, it is sensitiveness for another's woe; that sensitiveness which will kindly bear with the waywardness of a care-worn and oppressed spirit, until it has been brought into the light of happiness and peace. Sympathy without it we live alone, within Though the places which knew thee are lovely ourselves, cut off from all communication with again, To joy in their beauty they call thee in vain kindred hearts, isolated and estranged from the world. Without it, we should, I fear, become wholly absorbed in self, indifferent to the interests and well being of our universal brotherhood. Such a state of mind would most certainly be an unhappy one, and in which no one would desire long to remain. Sympathy! soul-cheering comforter of life! With thee for a companion, we can dwell amidst the most intense rigors of adversity, and still find the life within peaceful and genial; we can brave the severest ills that may assail us, with an unruffled brow, bow beneath affliction's storms, and finally lie tranquilly down to die, knowing that a true and loving heart watches the fast fading beams of the lamp of life, and when the last one shall be extinguished, will cherish our memory, and now and then drop upon our grass grown graves the tear of affection, and sigh for a re-union in the spirit world. Take wealth with all its allurements; honor with all its pleasures and high sounding titles; pomp with its gilded trappings, and power limited to earth's narrow boundary, but grant me sympathy with kindred souls, and I am content. More than this, I ask not, and with it will I perform life's journey rejoicingly. Hertwich Seminary, N. Y. SOME OF OUR NEIGHBORS. L. E. B. You asked me, I believe, Nettie, who dwelt in that neat little cottage, so completely surrounded by pines, and laughed when I told you uncle Phil, and aunt Lottie. Well, it was a rather different reply from what you expected, but nevertheless, I suspect the past history of its inmates, that I promised to give this evening, will prove full as interesting as that of the newly married pair you supposed to be so snugly ensconced within its pretty walls. Uncle Phil Prantly and his quiet help-mate, have dwelt in that same pleasant home these twenty years and more; and the garden has looked just as pretty ever since my earliest recollection, though the house has changed from its former "sombre brown" to its present white. I well remember when I first wended my way to the old red school-house, led by the careful hand of some mother-warned lassie, older in mischief than myself, how I used to stand on tiptoe to reach the nice bunches of flowers handed over the garden fence by kind uncle Phil, or his modest daughter. And then the awe with which I 8. VOL. XX. passed over the clean white threshold when sent thither on an errand! I know not why, but I was ever afraid when I entered the house. It was so quiet, so very still, the voices of Mrs. Prantly and her only daughter Maria, were so low, their smile so solemn, and pleasant, too, and the mutterings of the one only son,-a poor idiot boy, so strange and unearthly! I used to be so frightened and awe-struck, I never dared to speak above a whisper, and was ever glad to get out again, and would involuntarily draw a long breath, as if tired. But now I gladly visit the house; my childish fears are gone. Uncle Phil ever bears a pleasant smile, though it is more subdued than formerly. He has borne much of sorrow, real sorrow, and patiently has he struggled on without a murmur. Hardly a Sabbath passes but this faithful couple ride slowly by to the church. Five times has the church bell tolled for the children of their bosoms. Two died when but infants, then a sweet little girl of five summers fell asleep; then the poor idiot boy breathed his last, low sigh, and they swept over the cold deformed clay of one who, by his constant and utter helplessness, had riveted the chains of love around his darkened tenement. Now of all, none remained but the loved and loving Maria. All was lavished on her that they could procure; her few wants were satisfied, the house was repaired and painted, the garden and yards beautified for her. length a wild cousin of mine, to the utter astonishment of all, fell desperately in love with her. She was two years older than himself, and as different as possible. Yet he seemed to, and no doubt he did, love her sincerely, and after a time they formed an engagement, which was looked upon with pleasure by the parties. But after a time Maria, whose health was always delicate, began to droop, and day by day her step grew more and more feeble, and her cheek more pale. Vainly were all the usual remedies tried; she seemed to be fast sinking away; suddenly it seemed as if nature herself once more aroused, without the aid of physician's skill, and she appeared better. Accordingly they once more resumed the preparations for her approaching marriage. The wedding dress was procured, and it was decided that if her health continued to amend, the nuptial vows should be taken the ensuing Spring. At moment's But alas death with hardly a warning, laid the young girl low. Oh! how sudden seemed the blow. During the day before her death, she had seemed more unwell, and had . been obliged to take some slight medicine; in the night time she was taken worse, and at noon the next day the sunlight fell full and warm on the cold face of the last child. It was Sabbath when she died, and well do I remember the sad, sad day, the quivering lip and bowed head of uncle Phil, and the agonized face of poor aunt Lottie. Cousin Henry was in Boston at the time, and a letter was immediately despatched to announce the solemn tidings of his loved one's death. The funeral was appointed on Wednesday, and anxiously did they watch for the arriv al of Henry. Time passed on, and yet he came not. At length they silently and mournfully gathered at the house of prayer. The service over, they bore her to the tomb, and when returning thence they met Henry weary and worn by his rapid journey, faint and filled with woe. It was a sad, a tearful sight to witness that meeting, words cannot describe it. Henry now took the place of son in the hearts and home of uncle Phil and aunt Lottie, and when up from the city a larger share of his time was spent with them than at his own home; for although an only son, he had sisters to cheer his father's loneliness, and the Prantleys seemed to need his presence most. Thus two years past away, when Henry came home on account of his health. He had been very sick, and country air was declared to be his only hope of cure. the exertion of coming from the city home, made him worse, and a ride over to uncle Phil's so fatigued him, that he was obliged to remain there, and summons a physician. The same bed was brought down from the chamber that Maria had died on, and placed on the same spot where it stood so short a time before, and after a short but very severe illness of about a week, he breathed his last. But "Just two years ago," murmured uncle Phil with forced calmness, as he glanced from the dead to the dial; and we saw that just two years before, on the same day and hour, their sweet girl had died. So the lovers had met again. Now go with me to the burial ground, and I will show you where "side by side the lovers are sleeping." But not like Evangeline and Gabriel in "lonely graves," for close by their side three smaller mounds rise where the children all sleep together, and flowers bloom upon them all. And now uncle Phil, though paler and sadder, goes about with the same pleasant smile that made me love him when a child; and aunt Lottie, though her health has failed, and the tear ever starts as she mentions Henry and Maria, NIGHT playeth with the zephyrs, and the moon The low sweet whispers of the spirit cheer O for a soul of beauty thus to sing A song of silence, like the stars above, Dighton, Mass. HARRIET E. GARDNER. SOME THOUGHTS ON WINE. THE queer notions which some people form concerning life preservers, may be well illustrated by the following extract which we cut from an article on "Club Life" in "Chambers' Edinburgh Journal": "CLUBS, again, have helped to abolish the once fashionable vice of drunkenness. Formerly, one drunked made many, because, for the sake of conviviality, all were compelled to drink alike. Now, the individual is independent of his neighbors in this respect, and so thoroughly has the scale been turned in favor of sobriety, that no intemperate man is allowed to remain a member of a club. A careful examination of the statistics of several of these establishments brings out the fact, that the average quantity of wine drunk by each member, has not exceeded of late years half a pint per day. The moral bearing of the upper classes has been vastly amended by this improvement, not to mention health. It is said of one of the old school-an early member of the 'Union'-that he regarded with envy the daily half-pint, and no more, which was served to a certain witty and temperate author. One day he took up the small decanter and exclaimed with a sigh, 'Ah! I wish I could make up my mind to stick to your infallible life-preserv ers.'" Many a poor exposed soul has found himself sinking trusting to his half-a-pint a day, for this is a case where the less spirit a man has, the more buoyant and safe he will be. A LETTER Writer in Paris speaks as follows of the falsification of Wines : "A business which begins with the winegrower and ceases only with the last sale, whereever that may take place. It is understood that three hogsheads of wine are made out of every one imported into this capital, by the addition of alcohol, water, and coloring matter. This, observe the journals, is poison for the lower classes; and when they get admission into the hospitals, they are dosed even there with a pesti lent mixture." Sick and well, people are really dosing themselves with wines when they imagine they are drinking something akin to the nectar of the gods. The best judges of wine have been completely deceived, and the stuff that is frequently sold as wine, even for the sick, is a mixture too bad to go into any human stomach. AN English author, in one of his chapters, treats of some of the tricks at wine making, under the title of Secrets in all Trades. The author, meeting a stranger in a country churchyard, recognizes Burley, the late landlord of an inn he used to frequent near Cambridge, but now, it appears, retired to enjoy the fruits of his industry. Falling into a confidential discourse about the way in which this worthy conducted his business, the author receives from him a most luminous and satisfactory account of his wines. "You can't deny it, Burley: your wines of all kinds, were detestable-port, Madeira, claret, champagne—” "There now, sir! to prove how much gentlemen may be mistaken, I assure you, sir, as I'm an honest man, I never had but two sorts of wine in my cellar-port and sherry." 66 How! when I myself have tried your claret, "Yes, sir-at the price I paid for them. But to explain the thing at once, sir. You must know, sir, that I hadn't been long in business when I discovered that gentlemen knew very little about wine; but that if they didn't find some fault or other, they would appear to know much less-always excepting the young gentlemen from Cambridge, sir; and they are excellent judges!" [And here again Burley's little eyes twinkled a humorous commentary on the concluding words of his sentence.] Well, sir; with respect to my dinner wines I was always tolerably safe; gentlemen seldom find fault at dinner; so whether it might happen to be Madeira, or pale sherry, or brown, or——" . Why, just now you told me you had but two sorts of wine in your cellar!" "Very true, sir; port and sherry. But this was my plan, sir. If any one ordered Madeira: From one bottle of sherry take two glasses of wine, which replace by two glasses of brandy, and add thereto a slight squeeze of lemon; and this I found to give general satisfaction-especially to the young gentlemen from Cambridge, sir. But, upon the word of an honest man, I could scarcely get a living profit by my Madeira, sir, for I always used the best brandy. As to the pale and brown sherry, sir,-a couple of glasses of nice pure water, in place of the same quantity of wine, made what I used to call my delicate pale (by the by, a squeeze of lemon added to that made a very fair Bucellas, sir-a wine not much called for now, sir); and for my old brown sherry, a leetle burnt sugar was the thing. It looked very much like sherry that had been twice to the East Indies, sir; and, indeed, to my customers who were very particular about their wines, I used to serve it as such." "But, Mr. Burley, wasn't such a proceeding of such a character rather— ?" "I guess what you would say, sir; but I knew it to be a wholesome wine at bottom, sir. But my port was the wine which gave me the most trouble. Gentlemen seldom agree about port, sir. One gentleman would say, 'Burley, I don't 'I like this wine-it is too heavy! Is it, sir? I think I can find you a lighter.' Out went a glass of wine, and in went a glass of water. 'Well, sir,' I'd say, 'how do you approve of that?' 'Why-um-no; I can't say understand, sir, you like an older wine-softer; I think I can please you, sir.' Pump again, sir. 'Now, sir,' says I, (wiping the decanter with a napkin, and triumphantly holding it up to the light) try this, if you please.' 'That's it, Burley-that's the very wine; bring another bottle of the same.' But one can't please every body the same way, sir. Some gentlemen would complain of my port as being poor-without body. In went one glass of brandy. If that didn't answer, 'Ay, gentlemen,' says I, 'I know what will please you-you like a fuller bodied, rougher wine.' Out went two glasses of wine, and in went two or three glasses of brandy. This used to be a very favorite wine-but only with the young gentlemen from Cambridge, sir." "And your claret ?" My good wholesome port again, sir. Three wines out, three waters in, one pinch of tartaric acid, two ditto orris-powder. For a fuller claret, a little brandy; for a lighter claret, more water." "But how did you contrive about Burgundy?" "That was my claret, sir, with from three to six drops of bergamot, according as gentlemen liked a full flavor or a delicate flavor. As for champagne, sir, that of course I made myself." "How do you mean of course,' Burley?" "Oh, sir," said he, with an innocent yet waggish look; "surely every body makes his own champagne-else what CAN become of all the gooseberries?", nished in the most gorgeous style, and patronized most exclusively by women of wealth and fashion, who go there first for ice creams, &c., then for claret, champagne, brandy, mint juleps, sherry coblers, and brandy slings. This is no fancy sketch; there are at this moment scores of women of the first rank in society, who have become inveterate tipplers at these places." On reading this paragraph to a lady, she remarked, that she stepped into a Ladies' Saloon on Washington Street, Boston, and while there, a lady came in, took her seat at a table, and asked for her glass of—strong drink, as coolly as an old customer at the bar! In our own cityProvidence-last New Year's Day, wine was furnished to callers, and some of the gentlemen made three or four visits to the same place, being too boozy to remember where they had called. Ladies retired early as an excuse for not receiving any more callers. Beautiful poetry of wine, so classical! so applauded as the soul of wit, refinement, and good feeling! "Ah, shy deceiver; branded o'er and o'er, Yet still believed! exulting o'er the wreck Of sober vows." He has gone to his rest! Your journal announces his departure, far from his native scenes, upon our modern Eldorado's distant shores. Dis tinctly do I remember his manly bearing and intelligent countenance, as my eyes first rested upon him, a stranger in our village church. His stay in our midst was brief, yet he won all hearts by his courteousness and cheerfulness. Young, gay and talented, with a mind thoroughly cultivated by study and observation, he seemed fitted to adorn the circles in which he moved. We met with him at the evening party, where |