ascendency; but, as a pebble dropped into the bosom of the tranquil lake disturbs the surface to the very shore, so pain ruffles the current of reflection. Sometimes bodily infirmity triumphs, and life becomes a thinking anguish.

But when health is prostrated, the mind is thrown back upon itself, and discovers its own resources. If its fountains are deep, there is a perpetual gush of sentiment; if they are shallow, sterility marks the course of the streamlets, which may arrest the attention, and direct the efforts to an enlargement of the source. Instead of repining at our afflictions, we should rejoice that Providence has placed us in circumstances, so happily calculated to draw forth the latent energies of the soul, and teach us to study our own capacities, and improve our own reflections.

IX. UTILITY OF A DIARY.
(July 1841.)

My diary is a lyre, which grows discordant from neglect; but, when frequently handled, gives forth a music, "pleasant but mournful to the soul."

My diary is my confessor, into whose ear I love to whisper my joys, and griefs, and sins. And O, it is a delightful relief, when there is no other friend at hand, to pour out my thoughts and feelings upon its pages, unburdening both mind and heart.

But when I look at the record six months afterward, alas, the facts and figures have no longer the dew of their youth; but they limp along, with withered limbs, bearing the wrinkled brow of care. I frequently read over a page critically, observing the turn of each period; and then throw aside the rough block in disgust, wondering that my chisel had no finer edge. Again, I wish to summon the past before me; I seize the tell-tale volume; and in the vividness of its pictures, I forgot to observe faults, and am ready to press to my bosom the child of so much care and thought.

The objects at which we should aim in keeping a diary are probably the following:

1st. To preserve a picture of our outer and inner life.

2d. To socialize and simplify, to chasten or elevate our style.

3d. To treasure up the gems of thought for future use or gratification.

When the soul is surcharged, it must overflow. Restrain not the streams! Herbage and flowers will spring up and bloom along their windings. A green valley is thus hollowed out athwart the arid desert, through which memory can make her pilgrimages, and build her altars.

X. MY BIRTH-DAY.

(January, 1842.)

My birth-day! The family are once more gathered around the social board. Children and grand children, uncles, aunts and cousins, constitute the circle. Every face is smiling, and every heart is joyful. Every name is spotless, and every character is unimpeached. No family quarrels have ever disturbed our love. No unbrotherly feelings have ever broken our harmony. Death has never yet severed a tie among us. We are all here, in our father's house.

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My birth-day! Another link in the chain of life is finished; and as memory holds up this "fragment from the forge of fate," I can not help observing how little beauty and how little strength the chain exhibits.

My birth-day! All the days of the past year come trooping up before me. Each brings its tribute, and lays, it at my feet. The heap rises and swells into a mountain. alas! how little it contains of precious or useful! All sticks and stubble!

But,

My birth-day! Ah! where are the tender and happy years of childhood, when devouring care had not yet learned its pathway to the heart? What changes follow in the train of time! Where are the friends that fluttered around me in life's dear blossoming hours? Some are married; some in distant

lands; and some have reached "that bourne whence no traveler returns." How various have been our pursuits! How few have devoted themselves to letters! Most are engaged in household cares; and some have walled themselves in from the light of science. Here sits Ambition, "painting for eternity;" there, weakness, weaving its own winding sheet!

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XI. THE INVALID.

(February 1842.)

SICKNESS is the mildew of life. It destroys the beauty of our fairest hours. In the morning the spirits are refreshed, the heart throbs with ambitious hope, and Herculean obstacles "down at your bidding." But a little exertion overcomes you; fever mantles your cheek, trembling seizes your limbs, the death-pressure is on your lungs, your spirits go down to their zero, and ambition and hope are in the dust. Oh! these are the heralds of an unhappy night. You seek your couch, but cannot escape your pain. You change your position, and the watchful pain changes its location. A dry, hard cough sets in at the hour of midnight, and continues to annoy you till morning. You leave the weary bed, drunk from exhaustion, and blind from the troubled vigil; stagger to your toilet; totter

down to breakfast; sip a little coffee; rise without eating a mouthful; stalk about, and try to be cheerful, an hour or two; then return to your room, throw yourself upon the couch, and perhaps half lose the recollection of your misery in a brief and questionable slumber. Oh! such a morning has no sun-it never rises; no birds-they never sing; no flowersthey never bloom; no brooks-they never murmer; nothing but

"Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care!"

Miss Landon says we must feel what we write, if we would make our writings felt. If feeling can give inspiration to the pen, my description of the invalid must be eloquent. I have experienced more than I have penciled.

XII. LITERARY LADIES UNHAPPY WIVES. (August, 1842.)

MRS. S. L. L. certainly possesses the happy art of describing what she has felt. She has given us a complete portraiture of the unhappy wife, and I guess the fidelity of the sketch took its origin from her experience of "love's bad hours."

Why is it, I repeat it, so many of our literary women are unhappy in marriage? Does the fault lie in them? Or does the peevish watchfulness which men often manifest lest their wives should