which the qualities that gained our heart are embodied, yet lives, as much a legitimate object of love as when it animated the mortal body. They are not dead, those loved ones; no. They have only changed their state. They have only left a mortal tabernacle, dilapidated, inconvenient, and decaying, and gone to live, to live forever in a heavenly habitation, in the midst of society perfect and congenial. We love them still; and they love us still; and they may yet welcome us to the house of our Father in the heavens, where there are mansions for us as well as for them. Though, therefore, we must grow old in body, yet if we grow old in mind it is our own fault. He who merely sees and hears, who observes not, reflects not, and loves only transient things, may grow old. He is like the thoughtless insect, that flutters and sports the summer away, and makes no provision for winter. When the summer is gone, and winter, with her chilling blasts and driving snows, is on him, he must either die outright, or retire to his cell, and remain torpid till spring returns again. But he who observes, who reflects, and who loves the substantial, the permanent, the good, and the true, may feast in age, like the industrious and prudent bee in winter, on sweet and substantial substance gathered during youth and manhood. Disease and decay of the material organs do, indeed, sometimes obscure the manifestations, and obstruct the action of mind, but never affect the nature of the mind or the heart. Decay is not an incident of intellect or of affection. We may ascribe limits to the duration of human existence so far as the body, but not so far as the mind is concerned. Annihilation of itself, termination of the existence of its being, is an idea of which mind can form no conception. Often in the dying hour, when friends tell the sufferer, and facts convince him, that he is dying, there seems an utter absence in the mind of all consciousness of change in itself. The soul feels that it is not dying, but only leaving its tenement for another and a nobler habitation. And while friends, gathering about the bed, are uttering cries and shedding tears, the dying one himself is calm and tearless, the spirit resisting the laws which destroy the body, and the soul triumphing over death, and defying the grave. Talk not, then, of growing old in mind or in heart. Talk not of failing faculties of intellect—of decay of mind. Talk not of withered affections, and of exhausted sympathies. But observe and reflect, love the true and the good, and you need never be conscious of change or alteration, except for the better, in mind or in heart. SUMMER. SUMMER-Sweet, joyous summer, how many delightful associations are linked to the word-associations of childhood, and of home! I have read a story, in some old school book, of little Frank, who, on the return of each of the seasons, would wish that particular season to last always, and the little fellow received a scolding from his father, for indulging in what the old gentleman pleased to call inconsiderate and presumptuous wishes. But I never could find it in my heart to blame the child. In autumn he was delighted with beautiful skies and mellow fruits in winter, with his hand-sled and skates, he amused himself on the ice and snow: in spring, the green grass, fair flowers, and beautiful birds made him leap for gladness; and in summer, the waving fields of grass and grain presented new scenes of pleasure before him. Nor was it unnatural, that he, child as he was, should think each season more pleasant than the former, just as every mother thinks her youngest child the most interesting of the family. : Summer has beauties not inferior to those of spring; though following so closely upon spring, it does not present so strong a contrast to the preceding season, and, therefore, it makes less impression on us. The fields of summer exhibit exquisite beauty. To stand at this season on some gentle eminence of our prairies, and look over many thousands of acres of green corn and golden wheat waving in the breeze, ready for the harvest, is worth a voyage across the Atlantic. Come with me, gentle reader, and look upon our beau tiful Wabash plains. The fair-haired Ceres, while wandering over earth in search of her lost daughter, must have visited these lovely plains, and been charmed with the beauty of the region, for see how she has scattered over the ground her priceless gifts! And well might she, goddess though she was, be delighted with the place, for who ever saw such a country? Look over these plains. What exhaustless fertility! See what beautiful clusters of trees, seeming like green islands in the ocean! Neither Calypso's sea-girt isle, nor the fairy land of song, nor Eden, as depicted by Milton, could equal, in exqui site loveliness, the scene now before us. See what end less fields of wheat waving in the gentle south-west breeze! Here plenty reigns and revels. Come hither, thou who art fond of the beautiful, and say, didst thou ever look on such a scene? The interchange of prairie, and woodland, and running stream, and the variety of color, as the fields wave in the sunshine, form a picture of beauty which no painter may imitate. Come hither, ye poor, ye hungry, and look on the exhaustless provisions of nature for the supply of the wants of man. Let Europe send forth her starving millions. These prairies, if there were hands but sufficient to cultivate them to the extent of which they are capable, might produce sufficient to supply the world. But the sunshine grows hot, and we must leave the open prairie, and take shelter in this cluster of trees. The forests are beautiful in summer. The prairie trees seem young, as if they were but children, though the oldest inhabitant here may not remember when they were not; but the trees of the woodland seem old and venerable. These oaks, and sycamores, and elms, tell of the past. There is an old elm that throws its shadow, at sunset, upon my study window. It stands alone-all its companions have fallen by the woodman's ax. Its noble trunk stands erect, and far above the tops of the trees in the forest beyond, it throws out its graceful branches against the clear sky. Its smaller limbs hang drooping, as if in sorrow for the loneliness of its situation. That fine old tree belongs to other days, and could it speak, it might a tale unfold. It stood there when the Indian roamed these woods. It stood there when the white man first built his cabin, on the spot where, since, has risen a fine town, and it stands there still, though surrounded by farm-houses and cottages. I love that old tree, and I have requested my neighbor, on whose land it stands, to spare it from the ax, and I hope I may rescue it from that Vandalism which is ruining all these fine old monuments of the past, which might, if spared, add so much to the beauty of the country. Near my childhood's home was a plain, that seemed to me illimitable, covered with a most splendid forest of pine, fir, and tamarack. Its lively green, appearing even in winter, and more striking from contrast with the snow, was one of the first things that awoke in my heart the love of the beautiful. There came forth, from that forest, sounds, which none, who has once heard, can ever forget. A pine forest forms the harp of the winds, and when touched by the breeze it sends forth inimitable music. That forest was a favorite resort in my early days. There I rambled with buoyant spirit when a child, and there I sat under some old pine, in my maturer and studious days, with book or pen in hand. I fear, however, that should I again visit that old forest, I might find it sadly changed; for what men call public improvement has been there, and the snorting steam-horse, rushing with his ponderous car over its iron track, has scared away all the sylvan associations of the place. What scenes of intense sublimity are sometimes witnessed, in our western country, during a summer shower! |