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and seizing the standard that was flying on his right, he waved it three times around his head, shouting, “Wive la Patria, Vive la Liberta, Vive la Independence.” At that moment every bell in the city rung; the deep-mouthed guns from the wall gave answer in a voice of thunder, and the lofty Andes echoed back the response. Words cannot paint the scene that followed. The multitude stood for a time as if entranced, but soon many might be seen with tears invoking blessings on their liberators; others danced for very joy, and ever and anon the heavens were rent again by shouts of admiring applause. In the midst of the excitement, Bolivar had descended from the stage and a new rocession was formed, which moved towards the great cathedral. É. came a company of maidens in snow-white robes, with wreaths upon their heads, and baskets of flowers on their arms. Next in the procession, by the side of Bolivar, walked the archbishop, his long white beard and sacred robes giving to his appearance indescribable dignity. The low murmur of the people was repressed as these two entered the church, followed by the young and beautiful, who were to be united in marriage. As they moved up the aisle, the company of maidens, who were now standing in ranks on each side, dropped flowers in their way, at the same time chanting a wild and lively song of bravery and freedom. When at length Eugenio and his bride stopped before the altar, the silvery voices of the maidens melted to softer, sweeter strains, that told of love and beauty, the reward of the good and brave. The lovers pressed each other's hands passionately, and the audience held their breath in profound silence as the charming sounds echoed through the long drawn arches. They ceased, and the deep, solemn voice of the archbishop soon concluded the ceremony. Years have passed away since that time, but Peru still enjoys the blessings of a republican government, and, though her morning of life was shrouded in darkness, the daughter of the most illustrious, martyred patriot, has lived to see her husband rise to the highest offices in the gift of an independent people, and her two sons nobly following in the steps of their father. H. Q. J.

THE PAST.

The Past! 'tis sweet to think of it, to call
Before the mind the shad'wy images
Of days long fled, and musingly to rove
Along their winding rivulet:—its waves
Will ever cheer our sadden’d souls and teach
Our erring hearts the lesson they should learn.

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WHAT a host of feelings and associations come up at the sight or sound of this same simple phrase. Two persons, of a proper age we’ll suppose, young and handsome, buoyant and eager, untried in the ways of the world and ready to battle with it if such needs be, and in their youth and innocence having given each other their hearts, and vowed in their own way and at some lucky moment, they would love each other above all the world—just look at them. Her eye rests on him diffidently, yet with an affectionate, calm and conscious pride; and he in turn gazing on her, his own heart's idol, as if there was not such an other piece of furniture in the universe—just look at them. Hang their happiness! So I thought the other evening, as I buttoned up my coat at a friend's door—(alas, alas, my bachelor's coat, for be it known to #". friendly reader, that it covers a heart of six and thirty, though pass for a man of twenty five)—thus thought I, I say, as I buttoned my coat, took up my cane, and touched my hat for the tenth time, and walked meditatively away. “Ay, hang their happiness,” said I mentally—“hang all engaged people ! They wanted me out of the way—yes, I saw it—and then they were so deucedly polite. Mr. Q. wont you have this, and Mr. Q. wont you have that—O hang their happiness l” And pray, Mr. Q., says the reader, what do you mean by all this tempest in a tea-pot It's well enough to be engaged, says a fine WOL. I. I. 47

fellow of two or three and twenty, with a face and fortune that carries the beautiful Miss Such a One, right into his arms. It's well enough to be engaged, says that beautiful creature just bursting into womanhood, and who not a fortnight since softly faltered her affections to her impetuous lover. O, it’s all well enough, says every one who happens to have passed the Rubicon—but what, what indeed shall we say, we the lords of the creation (so styled), we single gentlemen, who having been jilted twenty times, now can’t get a kiss for the very life of us—ay, what shall we do in this sterile region of single blessedness? But I’ll tell you, Mr. Reader, what I am making a fuss sor. I called last evening on a lovely friend of mine—lovely I call her because she is so, and friendly I call her because she has been with me to balls, parties, jams, &c. &c., for the last five years—I say I called upon this fair friend of mine, and sound her seated cosily by a fine looking fellow whom I always hated, who very politely rose as I entered, and with the utmost nonchalance and self satisfied air in the world just tips me the end of his fingers and then passes me over to the lady and then passes himself off to a table hard by, and there sits down with such a confoundedly careless air as made me wish to kick him, and then commences turning over books and prints with all the unconcern of an emperor. I says to him—“a very fine print that l” “Eh—O—ye—yes” he stammered, and with such a start as if I had roused him up from some fine dream of Elysium. Miss, the lady, looks at him—their eyes meet—they separate— and then I heard as soft a sigh gently stirring the lady's bosom, as a zephyr's wing would make dallying with a bed of anemonies. “A very sweet evening this, Miss,” I say. “JNot till next fall, pa says”—slowly answered the unconscious girl, and then another long sigh as if her fluttering heart could’nt wait so long. I got up, reader, took my hat as I have told you, and slowly walked away, with a sort of hang-dog air, and a curse upon their happiness. Not because I meant to curse them exactly—for if they wished to be happy, surely I was not the one to interfere with it— but because I was myself, yes I confess it, envious and unhappy. I went home and put my thoughts down on paper as I am apt to do, and here they are, reader, for your edification. Engaged people are surely an interesting spectacle to any body, aye, even to a philosopher. He may see in their happy and satisfied air, much that will set him thinking, and if I mistake not, much that will make him better. There is something in the very idea of two hearts intertwining their sympathies, and locking themselves together in this hallowed communion—there is something in this beyond what is dreampt of in philosophy. They come together by no rules, guided by no principles, prepared by no apprenticeship. They do not learn to love as men learn a trade—by application.

No, nothing of this. They look upon each other, and by some subtle affinity which neither of them understands their hearts commingle, and all their thoughts, feelings and passions pouring into the same channel, they become one individual being. Whether there are some deeper and more abiding principles in our natures than have been yet divulged by the speculations of the foolish, it is not for me to determine ; but that two hearts should seek and yearn for each other as they will when every thing seems setting against them, until at last they overcome these difficulties and like two streams flow down from the hills and go quietly on together— that there is some mystery here not easily got at by the wisest of us, is most certainly true. That engaged people differ from other folks, is certain. O how abominably selfish they are There's no talking with them—nothing pleases them unless they are together—their thoughts ramble all over the world. See how quietly that gentleman gazes at that lovely girl there trying to catch his attention—he's engaged. See how listlessly that lady gives her ear to the one sitting by her, in behalf of some Mr. Somebody of talent and family—she’s engaged. How deucedly cold that fellow answers the smile of that sweet creature with him—see how her sweet lips open—they’re absolutely pearls—how she hangs on him and shakes her flaxen ringlets in his eyes as he lazily picks up her handkerchies—he's engaged. How kindly, even invitingly, that lady receives the compliments of that great fellow there, nodding and bobbing to her like a duck in a horse-pond—hang her 1 she's engaged. O, I hate engaged people. I hate to see them so confoundedly happy. I hate to see that couple walk the streets, or come into the room so persectly contented—I want to kick them out of the window. But indeed I do think there's something in it after all ; I believe there's something holy in this same affection. I have sat and watched them closely hour aster hour, I have seen their kindly preference for each other's society, their sweet though unobtrusive solicitude for each other's happiness, and I confess there seems something holy in it. I can see nothing earthly in them—he will not suffer another to breathe her name in his presence, and when she refers to him it is always by inference. I never heard him breathe a word which bordered on impurity; while to her, the very thought of a dearer connection, will crimson her cheek like the blush of the morning. Surely, then, there is something holy in such affection. And yet, I say, hang their happiness! What right have they to be pleased with each other! Why should their hearts burn for each other, even if the fire is as holy as that on the altar of Heaven! The rest of the world are not so—look at them—how they worry and kick and quarrel. Select any other two you choose—put them together—and ten to one they will cheat each other by sun-set. For myself I am a single man, no body loves me, I’m a mark for the world's jeers and gibes, its arrows continually prick me. The girls begin to call me their elder brother, and the mothers no longer smile upon me when I meet them, to remind me there are seven daughters at home waiting to be married. The brother no longer goes and treats me to champagne and oyster suppers, and the father buttons up his coat when I pass him, and hems as if it was too cold to look at me. He used to stop and tell me how sick his daughter was. And yet, and yet, I say, there's something holy in this same affection. How straight-forward, single and direct it makes the character, and how it softens down and purifies all our human sympathies. Friends of mine, that a year since were as aimless as the sparks on the tail of a comet, are now bending all their energies to be men in the world, and those who were loose in their conversation and habits, and were accustomed to laugh at and ridicule domestic sympathy, and call that man weak who could love but one woman, now regard these same sympathies as the purest of all treasures and the safe-guards of society. They seem to feel the importance of individual exertion—they have learned that a man carves out his own fortune—they seem to feel the claims which the world has on every man—in short, they have become better and wiser. If this is so, and surely it is so, then as surely, there is something holy in this same affection. And yet, I'm a bachelor—aye, and I choose to be one—aye, and if I must confess it, I certainly am an a-s—s. * Yale College.

TO A LITTLE BOY,

You are sad, my boy—you are sad, you say.
Well, 'tis a sad and a weary way;
Life, and its pleasures—there's much to make
The young spirit droop and the warm heart ache;
There is much that calls for our griefs and tears,
As we journey on through these weary years.

There is much to make you, my little one,
Pine and sick of the blessed sun;
There is much that will make the closing light
Welcome, that brings in the silent night,
When you may turn away from these busy things,
And lose on your pillow the bad world's stings.

You think 'tis false, and it seems so now,
That a cloud should shadow that unsunn'd brow;
And when I look at that eye so free,
I think, there must be but life's smiles for thee;
And, yet, you wearied, my little one,
Not a moment since, and wished day were done.

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