“You mean to ask what I should have to do with the diseases of your heart. I tell you, Fanny, I am not as bad as you may think, or so big a fool either. For instance, though I love you a great deal better than Heaven, and would sooner have you for my wife than an angel, yet knowing that you can’t love an old codger like me, I want to see you happy with the man of your choice, and I tell you now, for the cure of your headache, or heartache, that you have my consent to marry Mr. Wilson.” Fanny burst into so violent and uncontrolled a fit of weeping, that Mr. Evans was alarmed and puzzled. “Speak to me, Fanny, tell me what is all this. I thought to give you great joy, and I only set you weeping. Tell me, what does all this mean?” “Dear Cousin Charles,” said Fanny, “you have given me the greatest joy of my life.” “Then you love Wilson, as I thought,” said Mr. Evans. “No, no—not Wilson, but you, Cousin Charles; and you said you would rather have me for your wife than an angel.” And Fanny threw her arms around Charles Evans’s neck; and there is not a shadow of doubt that he would cheerfully have exchanged all the pleasures of his long bachelorate in a lump, for the kisses of the next five minutes. They were a happy couple that evening; but Wilson’s prospects were worse damaged than his heart. * * * * * THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD. BY HENRY S. HAGERT. Sweet is the tomb—the all-forgetting tomb— The dreamless couch round which no phantoms glide, To harrow up the soul, or read a doom, Of yore on their dread Sabbath prophesied. Calm are its slumbers—never more shall pride, Hatred or malice, wound the sleeping clay; Wrong not the dead—they should be deified— They lived and suffered, and have passed away; Here be all feuds forgot—ye, too, shall have your day. Your day of trouble, when the cup of Grief, Full of its Marsh-waters must be drained E’en to the dregs—when ye will need relief From those upon whose head your lips have rained, Curses; when they who were by you disdained, Shall offer in their mockery, to dry The hot dew of your brows by anguish strained Through the parched skin. Ah! then, in grief to fly For refuge to the grave, and find but calumny. Let the dead rest—if ye must “snarl and bite,” Turn to the living—there your venom spill; Put on Deception’s mask, then vent your spite, Sharpen your fangs, and gnaw, and rend, and kill— ’Tis a sweet banquet—eat and drink your fill; Ye can thrive well on malice—but forbear To stir the ashes of the dead, your skill Can never fan a glowing ember there, At which the hated torch of vengeance to repair.