“And now, Mr. S., it simply remains for me to acquaint you with the service which I wish you to render me. You will ascertain as soon as may be after your arrival in Virginia, what descendants there are of —— the former sheriff of ——, their situation in life and character; not that I mean to withhold from them what is justly their due, be they ever so vile; for may they not, if vicious, trace their very crimes to my unprincipled conduct? but that by being correctly informed of their pursuits and habits, I may be enabled to judge in what manner and to what extent, I can best act to their advantage. You will also seek the acquaintance of my son, and if you can become his friend. Write to me, and tell me candidly what he is; but until I sleep in death do not speak to him of me. You will not be condemned to a long silence, for I feel that my days are numbered. All necessary documents will be placed in your hands before your departure hence. You are my executor. Farewell.” LIFE’S STREAM. BY LUCY T. JOHNSON. Life’s stream sweeps through many a vale Of varied hues and smiles and tears— And bowers that joy the breezy gale, And desert wastes where grief appears. It sweeps—aye swiftly to the sea, Even as the gush of waters flowing; A wave—a rush how merrily! And then a chasm darkly showing. Its source is in the little nook Beside that far-off mountain, Where young buds o’er its bosom look, And violets kiss the fountain. How pure it gurgling starts—and beaming Bright in the first spring-morning’s sun, Heaven’s own loved miniature seeming— O thus is life begun! And then it seeks another scene— One gemmed with many flowers, Where May-dews linger yet between And in the leafy bowers: And still it thrills most joyously, Rippling o’er rock and glen—then sleeping Beside the mead or on the lea; But O, its dregs are creeping. And still it meets another land; But all its early flowers have faded, Save here and there upon its strand, One lingers by the storm abraded. And now its lengthened depths are clouded With misty volumes floating; And in a wild of brambles shrouded, O doth it cease its sporting. {760} Yet one more vale it finds—the last On life’s meandering shore— Its yellow leaf twirls on the blast, Its blossoms breathe no more: And o’er its sullen, beamless tide, Its bubbles all are breaking— ’Tis done—it meets the ocean wide, Each balmy scene forsaking. ’Tis done—the ocean’s boundless waste Rolls up its misty gleaming; And on that desert shore is cast The sea-wave darkly streaming. But shall it be thus lost? No never— A brighter impulse shall be given, E’en from its ocean sleep—to sever Its scintillings to Heaven. _Elfin Moor, Va. 1836_. AN ADDRESS