of the Pilgrims, on the lone sea-shore; and while he wanders around there with his fisher's rod, or hunter's pouch, in solitary greatness, two worlds are regarding him with the deepest interest. The mound where he is entombed is about a quarter of a mile from the mansion, and looks out upon the ocean, whose hardy sons he loved so well-and its murmur comes and whispers in the ears of the Great Man, as he lies slumbering there, the eternity of his fame. Oh, how I admired him. I have stood and gazed on that noble form, with tears rolling down my cheeks, while he spoke eloquent words, and turned those cavernous eyes around on listening thousands. 'Never shall we see his like again.' But the clock has struck eleven, and I will bid you good night. * Yours ever, most truly,

* *

*

So little know we what is in the dim,
Uncertain future. Hopes are beacons false,
That lure us on, but like the meteor's flash,;
Gleam brightly for a moment and are gone,
The winding mazes of life's labyrinth
Are traversed darksomely: a hidden clew
Conducts us, and we know not of the end,
But he hath found it.

New Hampshire Journal of Edu.

THE FIRST GREAT GRIEF.

BY AURORA GLEN.

'Twas morn!

And gentle zephyr came with sweet perfume
It had just gathered from dew-laden flowers,
And stole between white curtains, to the side
Of one it oft had wooed from slumbers chains,
To mark the beauties of a dawn like this.

It wandered o'er the cheek-'twas marble cold-
It breathed upon the lips-they murmured not-
It kissed the eyelids-they did not unclose-
And then, affrighted, it flew back again,
To tell its story to the wondering flowers.
The spirit was not there; but in a home
Of light, and love, and purest-holiest bliss,
Was drinking its first draught of heavenly joy.

Why is it that our hearts throb so with woe,
When the last sigh is breathed by lips we love?

Why, when the worn and troubled spirit finds
Rest from its weariness, at last, in heaven,

Are our souls dressed in such dark hues of gloom?
Is it that we would call them back to earth

To tread its darksome paths again? To mourn
O'er hopes decayed, and weep o'er hearts grown cold?
Not so! But from our lives a joy has fled-
A ray of sunlight has forever passed.

We can but mourn and weep, e'en while we know
That they, our loved ones, rest in peace in heaven.
'Tis ever thus when friends depart, but oh!

How deeper, darker is that grief, when she
Who nursed our infancy, and blessed our youth,
Goes back to God, and leaves us desolate.

A mother's form lay still, and pale, and cold-
A mother's spirit swelled the ranks of heaven.
But oh, how dark seemed earth to her who bent
Above the casket with such look of woe!
How deep seemed that despair! Days passed away-
The smile returned not, which was wont to wreathe
Those lips with sweetness ever-for death touched
The mother's heart, and they two were so linked,
The chill had reached the fount of joy within
The child's, and checked its flow forever.

Oh! is it not a fearful thing
To see a young, fond heart, which ne'er before
Had felt one touch of grief, suddenly bowed
With a great weight of sorrow! To mark the
Eye grow dim with weeping, and list in vain
For the sweet carol of the voice, which once
Rang on the ear in accents full of joy.

SALEM, OHIO, February, 1858.

SPORTS OF CHILDHOOD.-A celebrated female writer thus pleads the cause of little girls:

"I plead that she be not punished as a romp, if she keenly enjoys those active sports which city gentility proscribes. I plead that the ambition to make her accomplished should not chain her to the piano, till the spinal column, which should consolidate the frame, starts aside like a broken reed, nor bow her over her books, till the vital energy which ought to per vade the whole frame, mounts into the brain and kindles the dead fever."

NURSERY RHYMES-PROPHETIC.

AN

ESSAY,

READ AT THE CLOSE OF THE FALL TERM OF THE RACINE HIGH SCHOOL, DEC. 24TH, 1857, BY MISS ELIZABETH 8. BUTTERFIELD, A MEMBER OF THE GRADUAT ING CLASS.

GLANCING Over the wide domain of literature, we find many productions which have held an elevated rank among the cultivated of every age. Greece had her Iliad, Rome her Æneid; and though the blind Homer wandered in his life friendless and homeless, after ages have delighted to pay the tribute of praise due to his sublime genius.

The middle ages were productive of epics, which, in many respects, compare favorably with those of an earlier date. The German "NibelungenLied," and the Icelandic "Edda," though less generally read than the Homeric poems, still rank high as specimens of early beroic literature.

From the fact that it has been so difficult to determine precisely the time and place in which the events so vividly described in the Grecian epics transpired, some have regarded them as allegorical narrations, intended to symbolize the progress of principles and ideas, which have impressed themselves on the character and destiny of nations. The meaning of the German epic is more accurately defined, as the character and exploits of its hero are identified as those of a distinguished historical personage.

The "Edda" teaches that the earth and world arose from the carcass of a benumbed giant. It contains, also, the narration of "bold heroes and the friendly spirits of light," overcoming in many combats, "the might of the old powers of darkness." It is evidently an embodiment of the religious ideas of the people of the North, together with the traditionary accounts of events which had transpired in their history.

But while the study of these treasures of ancient literature has proved a source of unbounded interest to the scholar-from the light which they shed upon ancient life and thought, and the influence they have exerted upon mind-there is yet another collection of writings which is no less widely perused, and is also exerting a powerful influence in moulding the character of mind and thought. Of great antiquity, combining 'what Schlegel terms the three essentials of poetry-invention, expression, and inspiration, embodying deep and significant meaning, the classics of the nursery will amply repay the labor of study and investigation.

To the casual observer, it is true, they suggest no other idea than that of a senseless jargon of rhyme without reason, composed merely for the amusement of the young; but to those who thoughtfully examine them, they afford more than ordinary interest. For the influence which these poems have exerted upon the taste of mankind, they are worthy of our

highest regard. They were perchance, the first ballads which fell upon the ear of a Chaucer or a Spenser. They may have given bias and direc tion to the poetical minds of Shakspeare and Milton.

As historical records they are interesting. From the tale of Robin Hood many a lad has caught an inspiration that has aided him in sharpening his arrow and bending his bow in the cause of the oppressed and exiled. But it is of the prophetical character of these writings that we wish more particularly to speak. To the philosophic mind the study of prophecy is ever one of deep interest. Especially is this the case when passing events afford the means of verifying its truth.

Undoubtedly she whose name many of these writings bear, was, like the Delphian oracle of old, endowed with the power of prophetic vision far beyond any who now, in spiritual trance, aspire to fortell the mysteries of the future. That these remarkable productions have not attracted the attention of the learned, is perhaps on account of the but recent fulfillment of any of the predictions recorded therein.

Happy are we who live in times like the present, glowing in the light shed upon them from the past. Hear the lamentations of "Mother Goose'' over the financial crisis that was then far in the future:

"Hark! hark! the dogs do bark,

The beggars are coming to town,
Some in rags and some in jags,
And some in velvet gowns."

How vividly has she pictured the distress of all, both of the poor man and of him who "walks in silk attire."

Again she tells us of the ærial flight of an ancient dame, who neglecting the needs of earth, soared aloft, with broom in hand, prepared to "sweep the cob-webs from the sky."

How like in spirit was her far-reaching ambition to that of some modern reformers, who, overlooking the duties of their own sphere, and disregarding the injunction of St. Paul-"suffer not a woman to teach nor to usurp authority"—essay to hold the reins of government:

"To speak in public on the stage."

Like her, also, are the Mrs. Jellybys of our day, who, leaving the numberless claims of home and friends, expend their overflowing benevolence upon the benighted inhabitants far away in the regions round about "Borrioboola Gha."

Much like the career of "Simple Simon," whose search for plums on a thorn-bush proved so unavailing, was that of the great "Fillibuster" who, having left the scene of his battles and defeats in a most inglori. ous manner, is now a living exemplification of the truth that,

"He who fights and runs away,

May live to fight another day."

Is not that a clarion peal in which the watchful prophetess warns the "Little Boy Blue" of the danger to his fields and harvests from the inroads of flocks and herds.

Long ago a great man warned us that the "price of liberty is eternal vigilance." But the spirit of watchfulness which "Mother Goose" describes as a youth clad in the national uniform of "blue," has been long asleep under the hay-stack of commercial and private interests, until the sheep are in the meadows, and the cows in the corn indeed; since politicians rule the people instead of being the servants of those so-called "sovereigns," and since the order of the day is fraud and treachery for the sake of the spoils. But the youth has awakened from his slumbers, and sounded the notes of warning throughout the land, summoning to the standard of right and justice the valiant and true to do battle against wrong and oppression.

In the legend of "Jack the Giant Killer" it is related that upon the summit of a lofty rock stood a large white house, and in the house there dwelt a giant, whose antipathy toward Englishmen was so strong, that it was his delight to behead all who came within his reach. At last an end was put to his abominable career by the bravery and determination of a youth, who received, in honor of his valiant exploit, the name of "Jack the Giant Killer."

So at the head of our nation stands a "White House," where dwells in lonely state one who has also his antipathies; and, as the head of "MacKeon" falls, we can almost fancy we hear him chanting:

"Fee-fo,-fi-fum,

I smell the blood of a "Tiemanite;"
Alive or dead,

I'll have his head,"

But popular sentiment, like Jack's "bean stalk," is growing higher and stronger, and soon will the "Little Jack" of our day, the enterprising spirit of reform embodied in "Young America," mount by its aid to the very door of that white castle, and, with its vigorous hatchet, decapitate the "giant powers that be."

Again, "Mother Goose" tells us of a wondrous wise man, who

In this quaint, homely language did the ancient sybil predict the career of our wise man the "Little Giant," who, but a few days since, when taunt