The author of the following paper, having himself witnessed and heard what he has attempted to detail, merely designed to attract attention to a rich resource of pleasure inherent in every good man. To him who has carefully kept himself free from dishonor, and whose life has never been marred by the stains of vice, there is nothing so happily adapted to beguile the hours of solitude as reflections upon the past. Seneca calls the “unmoved tranquility of a happy mind, a great reward.” He who has so lived as to obtain it, whatever his present condition, may always find in his own thoughts the purest enjoyment, perhaps realizing in this healthful exercise of the resources within him, that there is much more of reality than fancy in what Iamblicus has said: “We must take this as a certain truth, that nothing properly evil shall happen to a good man, either in this life, or after it.” M. S----G. THE SICK MOTHER. I have never sat by the sick-bed of a mother without finding gradually stealing over me a deeply melancholy and impressive feeling. Nature has so constituted the human mind as to render it susceptible of an infinite variety of emotions, and made it so expansive in its grasp as to enable it to contemplate everything within the boundless universe. However finite it may be, there is nothing of which it cannot think; and although there are many things which it fails to understand, they all inspire some feeling or awaken some emotion within the invisible recesses of our nature. The many truths of which we know, and the countless beauties mirrored before our eyes by the imagination dwelling upon uncertainties and doubtful probabilities, often give rise to a variety of sensations so powerful as to hold us spell-bound. The deep springs of the heart, frequently hidden to our comprehension, are ever flowing for our enjoyment. Of this I was recently reminded, in a very impressive manner, by being ushered into the presence of a mother, who had, for three successive years, been confined to a sick-bed. The information of her sore affliction suggested a train of thought, and prompted a number of reflections, the recollection of which will forever abide fresh in my memory. She was yet young, and notwithstanding her many trials, exhibited a vigor of mind and a freshness of heart seldom discovered in the most healthy and buoyant. The knowledge of her prostration for years, in the prime of her life, and when possessed of all the impulsive desires and sanguine expectations common to those of her age, saddened me to sickness as I first entered her apartment; but upon discovering her genuine animation, her beauty of heart and sprightliness of mind, my feelings alternately changed from sadness to surprise, from surprise to veneration. How many pleasures, thought I, had I enjoyed during the past three years! How had I, watching the changing seasons, relished the many delightful things each of them had brought forth! In the