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The Youthful Duellist.

"I SHOULD rather hear of your death than of your dishonor," said Captain Fowler to his son Charles, a fine youth of eighteen, as he was about to proceed to his station, as midshipman on board the ship, at

"Remember my words, my son, death is better than disgrace." "Never fear, father," replied Charles, with an assumed smile, as he embraced a fond mother and three lovely sisters; "never fear that your Charles will disgrace the dear friends he leaves behind him." Then as his manly form and intelligent countenance, distinguished by extraordinary beauty, disappeared from the view of his idolizing family, a feeling of desolation came over their hearts like that of death, nor could the patriotism that induced them to give their assent to the step he had taken, nor the prospect of martial glory which they had fondly hoped would attend his career, now that he was consigned to the chances of war, reconcile them in the least to the painful separation.

But Charles, buoyant with youth and hope, journeyed away to his station in high spirits, regaling his mind with bright pictures of the future, and anticipating an active part in many "a deed of noble daring," in which he would signalize himself among the heroes of his country.

When he arrived at his destined port, a short time only, sufficed to ingratiate himself with his superior officers, and to secure the admiration and enthusiastic regard of his fellow midshipmen. Among the latter was Edward L, to whom Charles became particularly attached. In mind and manners they were congenial; but in stature Charles had much the advantage. Arm in arm, they were often seen walking along the shore, visiting the same haunts, partaking of the same mess, and, in fine, they were inseparable companions. The vessel was detained in port longer than was expected; so that, during six weeks, time often hung heavy on the minds of these aspiring youth. Both Charles and his friend were unac customed to scenes of dissipation, being recently from places of education; but they were bantered into compliance with excesses, even in this incipient stage of their

career.

On an occasion of this kind, when the glass was pass ing freely around, and inebriety heightened the tone of argument, and strengthened the pertinacity of opinion, Charles and Edward happened to be on opposite sides of a debate. A sharp altercation ensued between them, when Charles arose from the table flushed with wine and anger, saying, "It is false ! by heaven 'tis false! and were it not for your inferior size, I would chastise you for your insolence on the spot." "If that is all," said Edward with a haughty sneer, "it can be easily remedied. Choose your weapons and meet me forthwith." Seconds were chosen, and this infatuated company were in a short time. on a retired spot ashore, and the setting sun threw his farewell beams across nature's most beautiful scenery in spring; they also glanced over the marred and agonized visage of the mortally wounded Charles.

The night but one succeeding this fatal evening, Captain Fowler was borne rapidly on towards a scene, which was to harrow up his inmost soul. His parting injunc tion to his son, now sounded in his ears like a death knell, and he would have given worlds, and life itself, to recall the innocence and happiness of that recent period.

But time, which every moment brought anguish unutterable, both of body and mind to the hapless Charles, "and lessened of his life the little span," at length brought the equally wretched father, to the couch of his dying

son.

Oh, my father!" was the first exclamation, "have you arrived to see your poor Charles once more? But, oh! can I not be saved? Must I die now, when I just have begun to live? How can I meet death at this untimely period, in this cruel way? How can I meet my God? Oh, that rash act, could it be recalled! Honor, what is it? A murderer. Oh, father! my distress I cannot long endure. My mother, my sisters; your poor charles; weep not, dear father; it is all over; farewell."

Captain Fowler only waited to hear the requiem gun discharged over the grave of the lost Charles, and then in the agony of despair, he cornmenced his sad journey home, himself a monument and harbinger of woe. He lived several years; but never did the impression of the dreadful scene he had witnessed appear to leave his mind

night or day; and long after the event, the passage of the mail stage through the village at the midnight hour, roused him from his restless slumbers, and with sighs and suppressed groans he often paced the floor the rest of the night.

He was never known to enjoy quietude, though perfectly sane and possessed of competence; melancholy had effectually marked him for her own; and if he had made his peace with God, death must have been to him an angel of mercy.

Character of President Edwards.

PERHAPS, there never was a man more constantly retired from the world, giving himself to contemplation ; and it was a wonder that his feeble frame could subsist under such fatigues, daily repeated, and so long continued. Yet upon this being alluded to by one of his friends, only a few months before his death, he said to him, "I do not find but that I am now as able to bear the closest study, as I was thirty years ago; and can go through the exercises of the pulpit with as little uneasiness or difficulty." In his youth he appeared healthy, and with a great degree of vivacity, but was never robust. In middle life he appeared very much emaciated by severe study, and intense mental application. In his person he was tall of stature, and of a slender form. He had a high, broad, bold forehead, and an eye unusually piercing, and luminous; and on his whole countenance the features of his mind-perspicuity, sincerity and benevolence-were so strongly impressed, that no one could behold it, without at once discovering the clearest indications of great intellectual and moral elevation. His manners were those of the Christian gentleman, easy, tranquil, modest, and dignified; yet they were the manners of the student, grave, sedate and contemplative; and evinced an exact sense of propriety, and an undeviating attention to the rules of decorum. "He had," observes one of his cotemporaries, "a natural steadiness of temper, and fortitude of mind, which being sanctified by the Spirit of God, was ever of vast ad

vantage to him, to carry him through difficult services, and to support him under trying afflictions in the course of his life. Personal injuries he bore with a becoming meekness and patience, and a disposition of forgiveness." According to Dr. Hopkins, himself an eyewitness, these traits of character were eminently discovered throughout the whole of his long continued trials at Northampton. His own narrative of that transaction, his remarks before the council, his letters relating to it, and his farewell sermon, all written in the midst of the passing occurrences, bespeak as calm, and meek, and unperturbed a state of mind, as they would have done had they been written by a third person, long after the events took place. The humility, modesty, and serenity of his behavior, much endeared him to his acquaintance, and made him appear amiable in the eyes of such as had the privilege of conversing with him. In his private walk as a christian, he appeared an example of truly rational, consistent, uniform religion and virtue! a shining instance of the efficacy of that holy faith to which he was so firmly attached, and of which he was so zealous a defender. He exhibited much spirituality, and a heavenly bent of soul.

To a Mother.

You have a child on your knee. Listen a moment. Do you know what that child is? It is an immortal being; destined to live for ever! It is destined to be happy or miserable! And who is to make it happy or misera. ble? You-the mother! You, who gave it birth, the mother of its body, are also the mother of its soul, for good or ill. Its character is yet undecided; its destiny is placed in your hands. What shall it be? That child may be a liar. You can prevent it. It may be a drunkard. You can prevent it. It may be a thief. You can prevent it. It may be a murderer. You can prevent it. It may be an atheist. You can prevent it. It may live a life of misery to itself and mischief to others. You can prevent it. It may descend into the grave with an evil memory behind and dread before. You can prevent it. Yes, you, the mother, can prevent all these things. Will you, or

will you not? Look at the innocent! Tell me again; will you save it? Will you watch over it, will you teach it, warn it, discipline it, subdue it, pray for it? Or will you in the vain search of pleasure, or in gaiety, or in fashion or folly, or in the chase of some other bauble, or even in household cares, neglect the soul of your child, and leave the little immortal to take wing alone, exposed to evil, to temptation, to ruin? Look again at the infant! Place your hand on its little heart! Shall that heart be deserted by its mother, to beat perchance in sorrow, disappointment, wretchedness, and despair? Place your ear on its side and hear that heart beat! How rapid and vig orous the strokes! How the blood is thrown through the little veins! Think of it; that heart, in its vigor now, is the emblem of a spirit that will work with ceaseless pulsation, for sorrow or joy forever.

Poverty is no Disgrace.

Nor many days since, we rambled a short distance from the more compact and thickly settled part of the town, both for exercise and to breathe a purer air, than can be found amidst a dense population. We saw by the way-side a little urchin, apparently about six or eight years old, busily engaged in picking barberries. His clothes were neat and clean, but patched with many colors-his countenance open, frank, and the emblem of innocence. We stopped a moment to look at, and admire the apparent contentment and industry of the little fellow, and while so stopping, a very respectable and fine-looking middle aged lady, with a lad of about ten years of age, came up, who, like ourselves, were walking to take the morning air. On seeing the little boy among the barberry bushes, the lad of about ten with finer clothes, but a coarser heart, abruptly accosted him with, "I say, boy, what do you wear your clothes patched up so for!" With a countenance that bespoke his wounded feelings, be readily replied, "I have no father; my mother is poor, with four smaller children than I am, and not able to give me better clothes. I work in the factory most of the time, but the water is low, and I have not work to-day;

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