Where the strength of youth and the hoary head

In voiceless union meet.

"Twas here, through brake and tangled glade,

We tracked the panting deer;

'Twas in this vale our feasts were made;
'Twas on this green our prayers were said
By lips that knew not fear.

But now the red man's voice is still
Where once alone he trod ;

The white man's step now marks the hill;
The opening flower and murmuring rill
Now praise the white man's God.

But here, where rose our vine-wreathed home,

My father's ashes lie;

And I, too early taught to roam,

A time-worn, wearied wanderer, come,
Lone, desolate, to die.

LESSON XVIII.

The Fair Traveller. F. W. P. GREENWOOD.

I KNOW a lady who appears to me to be a perfect traveller And this is no small praise; for the person who may be said

to possess those good qualities which travelling will be sure to call forth, where they exist at all, cannot be far from excellence. Let me try to describe them, from the recollections of a delightful journey in that lady's company.

She is, then, a patient traveller. She does not suffer herself to be greatly disturbed by the accidents and inconveniences which attend a journey. She does not calculate that every thing will go on exactly as she wishes, nor expect that time, and nature, and the elements will accommodate themselves to her convenience and pleasure. I have seen people whose temper and faces would change with the varying skies, darken with the rain-cloud, and only smile with the sun; whose happiness and philosophy might all be overturned by the onset of the least untoward casualty;—but she is not one of these. She is not angry with the horses, or the driver, if the coach moves somewhat too slowly; or with the roads if they happen to be rough or heavy; or with the heavens if they lower; or the sunbeams if they glow too fiercely; or even with her fellow-passengers if they are dull or foolish; - for she knows that men and women are not all alike agreeable, and I am sure that she must have discovered, long before this time, that Heaven has seen fit to form but few such beings as herself. Good company, good inns, good roads, and good weather, she knows how to value; the reverse of these she knows how to endure. In this she manifests a refined philosophy; for it is seldom that misfortune can be remedied by impatience and repining, though many evils may be conquered by being borne.

She is a courageous traveller. As she does not complain when the horses go too slowly, so neither does she take alarm if they run too fast. She fills not her head with a thousand apprehensions of steep precipices, rotten bridges, lightning and hurricanes, tipsy coachmen, and bursting boilers. She is determined to derive all the pleasure from her journey which it will afford, instead of creating new and unnecessary sources of pain in the progress of every mile. She is above

the affectation of counterfeiting a pretty fear which she does not feel; and even when she experiences real fears, she has too much regard for the comfort of others to give needless trouble by expressing them too readily. Cowardly travellers should make their journeys in their own coaches.

She is an observing traveller. Our broad rivers do not roll, nor our mountains rise, nor our forests wave, nor our cataracts fall and foam for her in vain. She has an eye to appreciate, and a heart to feel, the ever-varying grandeur and loveliness which nature lavishes above, around, and beneath. I saw, and, loving nature myself, I gladly saw, that

Whate'er of beautiful or new,

Sublime or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky,
By chance, or search, was offered to her view,
She scanned with curious and romantic eye.

She is also an observer of living character, as well as of the forms and appearances of nature. She reads, as she travels, the book of humanity; thinking it is a worthy exercise of the mind, and one of the great advantages of travelling, to become acquainted with the world in which she lives, and the beings by whom she is surrounded. She is of an entirely different class from those whom I might denominate mile-stone travellers, who can tell you, if the figures do not happen to be effaced from their brains, how far it is from one place to another, and that is all.

Too charitable to confine her knowledge within her own breast, she imparts the results of her observation to her friends, and is thus a communicative traveller. She dispenses in bounty what she has gathered up in wisdom; as Joseph fed his father and his brethren from the granaries which his good counsel had filled. From her lips, knowledge seems more valuable, and truth more precious; and who can imagine that the way is long, or the roads are bad, while enjoying the privilege of her society and conversation?

She is a candid traveller; being willing that her views should be corrected, whenever they are erroneous, and conscious that she may be informed on many subjects by those whose means of knowledge are superior to her own. Some people think that there is nothing true in the world but their own impressions. I once travelled in Wales with a gentleman of this sort, and particularly recollect his insisting that a large cloud, which rested on the distant horizon, was Mount Snowdon. No one who had ever been in a mountainous country could have mistaken it for any thing but a cloud; but notwithstanding the postboy, who was born and brought up in the neighborhood, decided against my friend, he firmly maintained that it was a mountain, and as night closed in soon afterwards, he probably believes so still. Such a traveller as this goes through the world in a state of absolute blindness, when compared with one like the lady I am describing, who readily resigns her misconceptions and prejudices, both with regard to natural objects and the manners and characters of men, on good and sufficient evidence.

She is a benevolent traveller; that is, she does not belong to the very numerous class of travellers who seem as if, when they commenced their journey, they had shaken hands with good feeling and politeness, among the rest of their friends, on the wharf or at the coach door. Like charity, she “seeketh not her own." She is affable, gentle, obliging; and by performing good offices, takes the best method of securing them to herself in return. Who that knows her would not cheerfully encounter any inconvenience or danger, rather than she should suffer?

I might make the catalogue a much longer one; but I have said enough to render it evident, that with passports like the above, our FAIR TRAVELLER may find an easy way into the hearts of her companions. Or, if there be any hearts which can resist or dispute her entrance, I can only say, that they are more sternly guarded than mine is.

tune.

I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of forThose disasters, which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that, at times, it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and supporter of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity.

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs, so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependant and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart.

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. "I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, "than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man, falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his