“How often has my cheek burned with shame, at the recollection of my silly contempt for trades-people, when I was worse than idling away my time at college? How often has my heart smote me when I thought of my conduct toward you, my noble-minded, my best earthly friend? But why repeat all this? You have long since forgiven me, and yet I never can forgive myself. And now for my good fortune. My employer has enlarged his business and taken me into partnership, so that I am in a fair way of being once more a rich man, (and may I not add a wiser one?) and your little namesake here, Robert Dunning, who is standing at my knee, is in an equally fair way of remaining what he now is—_the son of a grocer_. Heaven grant that he may in every thing resemble the man to whom his father once used the words as a term of reproach. This is now my highest earthly ambition for my boy, and I pray that my own lessons in the school of adversity may enable me to teach him to place a juster estimate on the empty distinctions of society, and to learn how true are the words of the poet— “Honor and shame from no condition rise; Act well thy part, there all the honor lies.” * * * * * LOVE. BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. A fading, fleeting dream! That blinds awhile with bright and dazzling ray, Until the heart is wildered by its beam, And wanders from its lofty path away, While meteors wild like holy planets gleam, To tempt our steps astray! A creature of the brain! Whom poets painted with a hue divine— That, bright embodied in their thrilling strain, Makes the soul drunken, as with mental wine, While the heart bows in longing and in pain Before its mystic shrine! The shadow of a bliss! That flies the spirit hastening to enjoy— That seems to come from fairer climes than this, To throw its spells around the dreaming boy, But steals his quiet with its siren-kiss, And robs his soul of joy! Is this that power unknown That rules the world with curbless, boundless sway, Binding the lowest cot and loftiest throne In golden fetters, which resist decay, And breathing o’er each cold and rugged zone The balminess of May? No! By the soul’s high trust On Him whose mandate bade the planets move! Who, kind and merciful, though sternly just, Gave unto man that loftiest boon of love, To bless the spirit till his form is dust, Then soar with it above! ’Tis no delusive spell, Binding the fond heart in its shadowy hall; But ’neath its power the purer feelings swell, Till man forgets his thraldom and his fall, And bliss, that slumbers in the spirit’s cell, Wakes at its magic call.