gaily with her milk-pail upon one arm, and her cherry-cheeked baby on the other, (for she dares not leave it alone,) to milk her cow amid the cool breezes of the morning. How beautiful are the wild violets that spring beneath her feet! The crimson pink, the wild lilly and columbine that enliven her path. The honeydew of the tulip bee is falling around, and every zephyr regales her senses with the rich fragrance of the wild grape as it festoons half the forest. But can she stay to admire or pluck these gems of beauty with her ungloved hands? No, no; for she has left her eldest-born sleeping in his little cot, or sitting upon the doorsill waiting her return. She must hurry, too, for her man must have his breakfast-and his hoe has been busy already an hour among the corn.

The milking is done, and she skips lightly back, singing as she goes, an echo to the charms in the tree-top, with her foaming bucket and her cherry-cheeked baby. The morning meal is now prepared, eaten, and the household set in order.

Then comes out the spinningwheel; for in a new country, cotton is not to be had for a shilling a yard, and her busy hands must draw out her twelve cuts of flax, tow, or wool, ere nightfall, stopping betimes to get the dinner and to attend to the wants of the children. Now the sun is sinking, she must get the supper, milk the cow again, perhaps put the sheep in the fold, take care of the poultry, and many other matters ere the hour of sleep. Think you that you would find time for poetry, refinement, and flowers, with such a round of duties, toils, and cares? No, you would be content, as she is, to gaze upon the loveliness around you, as God and nature has made it.

But where is the husband and father all this time? Wielding, with strong and steady hand, the plow, the axe, the hoe, and the spade, saving every hour; for though he now has neighbors and friends, he can hire but little, for his land is not yet all paid for, and from the first beam of dawn to evening twilight he must work on.

But why all this unwearying toil, this fearful struggle of labor? The country is new, the market poor, his children increasing, the days are wearing apace. He does not wish to live always the tenant of a .cabin, or even a hewn log house. The future looks bright. The love of the beautiful, the refined, the luxurious, lies deep down

in the bottom of his heart, and that of his good wife too. But their's is a refinement above and beyond the common lot, and a nobleness of purpose, reaching away into the future. They live a life of toil and self-denial, that they may throw a halo of brightness around the loved who are springing up at the fireside; and their sleep is sweetened by a sense of duty done, and a hope of an age of competence and ease.

Let us skip over twenty years. Where now is the cabin, the stumps, and the deadnings, and the unsightly objects that travelers complain of so much in a new country? Ay, and the barefooted mothers and daughters? They are not in the places that knew them, but in their stead we find the stately farmhouse, the golden harvest, the orchard bending with its fruit; comfort, and plenty, and ease surround the farmer, and his thrifty dame rides in her carriage and enjoys a green old age; "for her hands have held the distaff, and her works praise her in the gates." The sound of the spinning wheel has given place to the piano and accordeon, for the busy machine renders it useless. And the sweet-briar, the jessamine, and the honeysuckles creep over the latticed portico, and the farmer draws his cushioned arm-chair to the door, to look out upon his rich pasture of tulips and roses in spring, or dahlias and verbenas in August, while he reads an account of the last new invention, or the debates in Congress.

Such is, as we believe, a brief sketch of the trials, and toil, and advancements of a real settler's life, and from which families have sprung some of the first and best men of our land.

In the obscurity of retirement, amid the squalid poverty and revolting privations of a cottage, it has often been my lot to witness scenes of magnanimity and self-denial, as much beyond the belief, as the practice of the great; a heroism borrowing no support, either from the gaze of the many or the admiration of the few, yet flourishing amid ruins, and on the confines of the grave; a spectacle as stupendous in the moral world, as the falls of Niagara, in the natural; and, like that mighty cataract, doomed to display its grandeur, only where there are no eyes to appreciate its magnificence.

CHANGES OF LIFE.

Original.

BY MISS JANE A. ELLS.

On one of those delightful days of Spring, when all nature seems to bid us go forth and view her beauties, I threw on my bonnet, determined to resist her call no longer. I had just entered a small grove which stood a short distance from my home, when I saw a beautiful child, over whose curly locks and saddened brow scarcely eight summers had rolled, standing with a thoughtful look, gazing upon the ground, while an aged man, leaning upon his staff, seemed engaged in conversation upon a theme most dear to him. As I approached them, I recognized the old gentleman to be one with whom I had often met and conversed, but of whose former history I had no knowledge. He kindly welcomed me, and remarked, "I was speaking of past days. My locks are white with the frosts of time, and many are the changes of life which I have seen. Oh! may it not be your lot to experience such changes as I have done." The deep feeling with which these words were uttered, rendered me speechless. They spoke volumes, and I felt that that sympathy, which can only come from those who have been in like circumstances, ought to break the silence. He continued -" Twenty years ago I was surrounded by a group of happy faces; yes, the object of my early choice, the idol of my heart was there. Never was there a more affectionate wife and devoted mother than was she. Unhappiness never entered the circle where she was; for like an angel of light she moved, dispelling every cloud, shedding abroad joy and happiness. Would that God had permitted those spirits which were united on earth to ascend to heaven together. But He hath done all things well. Not my will, but His be done. After her departure, life to me was of little worth. My family claimed my thoughts, and I strove to live to guide them in the right path. At her death we were living in competency. My children knew not what it was to be denied any reasonable request. But here, too, there came a

change. Friends in whom I had the utmost confidence proved false. My family were almost beggars. I strove hard to repair my loss. My endeavors were blessed, and for a time hope beat high. I was enabled to give my children an education that would prepare them for any station in life. When I saw the cold earth receive the companion of my bosom, friends prove false, and my children poor, I thought my cup was full. Human nature must sink under so much affliction; but I knew not what I could endure and live. In yonder graveyard the green grass grows over two of my motherless children, but yesterday I received the intelligence of the death of the last link of my broken household my youngest son, the father of this lovely child. I remain like the trunk of an old oak, stript by the strong winds of all its branches; like that I reel with the winds, and shall soon be gathered with the branches; how soon I care not."

His was grief too deep to be soothed by the poor words of sympathy. Sympathy could be expressed by looks and actions, but not by words. I wept with him, and as he departed, I thought, truly, here is a monument of the changes of life. Many of us who are just commencing the journey of life, little anticipate the variety of scenes through which we must pass ere we come to its close. That changes will come is certain. Change is stamped upon everything earthly, from the cradle to the grave. But religion alone can prepare us to pass through all these reverses with happiness, and benefit to ourselves and mankind.

OBERLIN, August 15, 1850.

REPARTEE is perfect, when it effects its purpose with a double edge. Repartee is the highest order of wit, as it bespeaks the coolest, yet quickest exercise of genius, at a moment when the passions are roused. Voltaire, on hearing the name of Haller mentioned to him by an English traveler at Ferney, burst forth into a violent panegyric upon him; his visiter told him that such praise was most disinterested, for that Haller by no means spoke so highly of him. "Well, well, n'importe," replied Voltaire, "perhaps we are both mistaken."

AFTER a few prefatory remarks, we inserted, from Chambers' Miscellany, a graphic description of the "Petrified Forest," situated near Cairo, Egypt, in the first number of this series of articles; designing, as we then stated, to make those truthful and interesting facts contained in it, the basis of arguments in favor of a theory of chemical changes and agencies somewhat different from the prevailing theory.

So far as we can understand them, though their sentiments upon this point are not very definitely or clearly expressed, most scholars and chemists maintain the opinion, that every ultimate particle or individual atom of matter possesses a particular and independent quality of its own; and that, whatsoever may be the transformations which the compounds with which it is connected may undergo, or into whatsoever organization it may enter, it immutably maintains that distinctive quality: an atom of acid, for instance, remains forever an acid; an atom of alkali, forever an alkali; combustible materials remain forever combustible, and incombustible, forever incombustible; animal, and vegetable, and mineral substances continue, so far as the inherent quality of their ultimate particles is concerned, the same from age to age.

Now, if this be, as we conclude, the theory of the books, though it be nowhere very clearly expressed, we dissent from it altogether, and assume, from the facts furnished by the wonderful petrifications of the celebrated forest near Cairo, as well as from a thousand other phenomena of a like character, that there is no inherent necessity, in any law of nature, that an ultimate atom of mere inert matter should possess an exclusive and immutable character. On the contrary, we assume that a particular atom of matter may be either an