“Ay, I know it. That is one of our _rights_, secured to us by the Reform—the right to be mobbed—and behold, another!” The lungs of the _lawyeress_ had been exerted until her voice had broken and sunk into a hoarse whisper. “Louder!” “Louder!” “Louder!” came the cries from every part of the court-room. “Order!” “Order!” “Order!” rung out the echo. The court put on all its dignity, and looked very portentous; the constables exerted themselves manfully (_womanfully_;) the _lawyeress_ raised a last screech, and the crowd hissed and groaned. “Carry her out! carry her out! she has swooned!” shouted several voices; and an old seaman at my elbow, gave, with a round oath, his opinion that it was “only a woman’s trick to steer clear of the breakers.” He added a grumbling word or two about the doings of a certain _captainess_ in a late storm; but at this moment I caught a glimpse of the face of the lady-lawyer as she was borne past me; I started with surprise, and awoke. That I should have such a vision of _my cousin_ “_’Bel_!” Well, “If it comes three times, I thought, I’ll take it for a sign.” Oh! if it should! * * * * * “ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS?” BY S. DRYDEN PHELPS. ’Tis sweet to think that spirits pure and holy, Are often hovering round the pilgrim here, To banish thoughts of grief and melancholy, And bid the trembling heart forget to fear. Bright angel forms, on soft and airy pinions, Like carrier birds, the messengers of love, Leave the fair precincts of the blest dominions, With choicest favors from the world above. They come, and give to solitude its pleasures, And throw a hallowed charm around the heart; Bear up the thoughts to heaven’s unfading treasures, Where kindred spirits meet no more to part. They come, from those celestial hills descending, Sent by the bounteous Ruler of the skies; We feel their presence with our spirits blending, When evening orisons to heaven arise. They come, when o’er the sorrowing heart is stealing The wasting blight of earth’s consuming wo; They come, a ray of heavenly light revealing, Amidst the darkness of our path below. They come to dry the mourner’s fount of sadness, To pour their blessings on the drooping head; And bid the soul awake to hope and gladness, Along the vistas of the future spread. The mother, whose beloved infant slumbers, Cold, in the silent chamber of the tomb, Oft hears its pleasing voice, like seraph’s numbers, Fall on her ear amidst surrounding gloom. The lonely orphan, by the world forsaken, Oft seems the kindness of the dead to share; And feels a thrill of new-born joy awaken, As if embraced with fond, parental care.