Both the reader and the writer are deeply indebted to that gracious Providence which has cast our lot in the most favored of all times. Chiefly through the progress of the Arts, the average of existence has been lengthened many years, and into these years it is possible to concentrate an amount of literary acquisition, and moral achievement, and intellectual enjoyment, for which Methuselah himself had not leisure. For lives thus lengthened let us show our gratitude by living to good purpose; and, remembering that railways and telegraphs and steam-printed books are the good gifts of God, let the age which enjoys them be also the age of holiest obedience and largest benevolence. ----- [7] Drummond’s Letters. [8] Knapp’s “Chemical Technology,” p. 179. [9] See Professor Brande’s “Lecture,” Jan 31, 1851. [10] The invention of Mr. Grant, of the Victualling Department, Somerset House. * * * * * SNOW. BY J. P. ADDISON. Falling, falling, The snow is falling; Floating, falling, To the earth tending With motion unending; Floating, falling. Veiled are the mountains, Dim is the plain; Who looketh afar, He looketh in vain; Wrapped in the shower, Dark pines tower, Shadow-like near, Arms outspread, As over the dead, Solemn and drear. Snow-birds cheerily Chirp as they fly; Ravens drearily Answer on high: Else, in the distance, One who listens, Naught may hear, Voice nor sound, In the country round, Far or near. Roof of the cottage And vine at the door, Chimney and lattice Are rounded o’er; The black tree Is fair to see In its net of snow, And the apple-bough Bends nearer now To the casement low. The paths lie buried, The storm covers all, The high-road wide And the house-path small; Hid is the stain Of wind and rain On the fences nigh, And afar, each row With the feathery snow Is rounded high. Muffled and heavily Moveth the wain, Wearily waiteth And moveth again; How for his hearth-fire Sigheth the farmer Here in the storm; There, the fire verily Crackleth merrily Thinks he, and warm. Gained that warm hearth-side, Glad by the fire ’Mid his dear loved ones Sitteth the sire. “Ah the fire verily Crackleth merrily, Children mine,” In the answering gleam Glad faces beam, The white walls shine. Still it is falling, The snow is falling, Floating, falling; To the earth tending With motion unending, Floating, falling. * * * * * THE LOST DEED. A LEGEND OF OLD SALEM.