It is useless to argue with him; and I find the most judicious mode of disposing of the matter is to let the question remain unanswered; by which means he soon comes round, begins to discover a few merits in the manuscript, and finally concludes with a warm panegyric upon Mr. STITES himself, always however with a reservation as to the dog, whom he swears 'he never shall be able to stomach.' In all respects, my quiet old home remains as it was. The same mystery hangs about it as formerly. The interest which for a time was excited respecting it, when I gave an account of the murder which had left it shunned and tenantless, has died away; and with the exception of Mr. Snagg, Mr. Stites, and my dog, I have few visiters. Perhaps it is best that it should be so; for I have the spectres of no hard feelings nor bitter thoughts, nor painful recollections to haunt me, requiring excitement and bustle to drive them off; and old age demands time for solemn thought and serious meditation, to enable it to wean itself from the past, and look cheerfully forward to the future. But no more of myself. My task is ended; and I now bid you farewell! JOHN QUOD. THE PAST. I. Despair not, though thy course is drear, The past has pleasures for us all; Bright scenes and things to hearts most dear, And those how fondly we recall. II. Such as some lovely girl we knew; Such as some touching song we heard; Such as some evening spent, when flew The hours as swift as passing bird. III. Such as some well-tried friend we had; Such as some acts of kindness done, Yet rising up to make us glad, And so will rise when years are gone. IV. Despair not! still be innocent; Admire the beautiful, the good, And when the cry of woe is sent, Turn to relieve, in pitying mood. V. So shall the present, when 'tis past, Rich with harmonious scenes appear, No gloomy shadows o'er it cast, No spectres there, to make thee fear. E. G. THE HEARTH OF HOME. BY MARY E. HEWITT. The storm around my dwelling sweeps, And while the dry boughs fierce it reaps, My heart within a vigil keeps, The warm and cheering hearth beside; And as I mark the kindling glow Brightly o'er all its radiance throw, Back to the years my memories flow, When Rome sat on her hills in pride; When every stream and grove and tree And fountain had its deity. The hearth was then, 'mong low and great, Unto the Lares consecrate: The youth arrived to man's estate There offered up his golden heart; Thither, when overwhelmed with dread, The stranger still for refuge fled, Was kindly cheered, and warmed, and fed, Till he might fearless thence depart: And there the slave, a slave no more, Hung reverent up the chain he wore.