Roxbury, (Mass.) Thou hast roamed by the brook trees, and hast heard And he has filled thy heart With happy thoughts of the gladsome earth; With an innocent flow of waywardness And thy soul with its rippling music doth bless. Ever laughing thou art, ELLENE, Like a sunny, clear spring-day, THE DEAF AND THE DUMB. BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR, Loss of speech so often accompanies a lack of the hearing faculty, that deafness' and 'dumbness' have come to be employed almost as synonymous terms. At least they are so nearly allied to each other that it seems hardly proper to separate the victims of these two maladies into two distinct classes, as we would the lame and the blind, for instance. I shall, therefore, in referring to some characteristics of these our unfortunate fellow-beings, speak of them in that intimate connection by which the stern law of adversity has united them into a closer fellowship than springs from the great bond of humanity, or the ordinary ties of misfortune. Under this general head of the deaf and dumb may be enumerated several varieties, according to the complete or partial loss of either faculty, and producing a corresponding variation of character, as the natural result of such deprivation. First in order are those upon whom both these forms of misfortune have fallen most heavily; those who are entirely deaf and dumb. From them all communication with the outward world, by the common forms of conversation, is withheld. The flood-gates of their own souls are also shut; a barrier is opposed to all those impulsive emotions which are constantly bubbling up in an active mind, and which fall so pleasantly from a nimble tongue. It is true that the power of giving vent to their thoughts by writing is not denied them; yet how much inferior is this power, in its ordinary bestowal, to the noble gift of speech! Their substitute for conversation is but a dumb show; mere symbols of words, conveying only the outline of the thought they would express, not its depth of feeling. It is painful to witness their abortive attempts to speak, when, after vainly striving to express themselves by signs, the struggling thought seems to rush at the closed door of speech, and demand utterance. It is not the fact that they cannot understand or speak our language which pains us; that would be simply an inconvenience; but that human beings, endowed in other respects like ourselves, should be deprived of two of the most important physical qualities-should pass through life in complete silence, unable to utter even an intelligible sound-this is indeed hard to think upon. The lack of speech in dumb animals, (as we are pleased to call them,) does not awaken our pity. They can speak; if not to us, to their own kind. We can look upon them as foreigners, whose dialect, although it may excite our curiosity, seldom stirs any deeper feeling. But the jargon of the dumb man bears with it no meaning; he has no language; and the want of it is plainly discernible in that vacant look which invests his face on the failure of an attempted expression. There is something too in the loss of hearing which is truly sad. When we think what a glorious world of happy sounds, the lowbreathing tones of nature, the rich melody of art, the soul-entrancing music of friendly voices and fire-side notes of cheer, is forever closed against one of our number, a deep feeling of grief fills the heart. This feeling is unavoidable, nor should we wish to shun it. It is the true impulse of human sympathy and brotherly love. Yet why look only upon the dark side, when there is a brighter to which we may turn ? Adversity may be represented as a demon with grim visage and uncouth form, wrapped in a dark mantle, under whose folds lurks a cherub, with beaming eye and gentle words, soothing his rage and healing the wounds he inflicts. At his first approach we shudder, for we see nothing but his own terrors; but on a nearer view the jewel in his mantle charms our gaze, and we tread his gloomy pathway unresisting. It is an old saying that 'misfortunes seldom come singly.' It would be a truer one, that misfortune never comes alone. An attendant angel is always by its side, bearing the oil and wine of consolation; and while we writhe under the blows of the one, our wounded spirits are refreshed by the gentle ministrations of the other. So in this instance. We pity him upon whose ear no sound has ever fallen to awake pleasant echoes within his soul, or whose lips have never syllabled one human tone; yet when our ears are stunned by the clamor of a discordant world; when custom forces our unwilling lips to utter unmeaning commonplaces, to be answered by hollow echoes from the stupid blocks of fashion; we are fain to turn a half-envious eye at the poor mute, whose silence had before awakened our sympathy. We have commiserated his hard fate in being denied the delight of hearing earthly sounds, forgetting the higher harmony which mingles with all his being. We have wished for him the power of expression, that he might hold sweet converse with friends, unmindful of those holier communings with his own heart. Can we believe that an all-wise CREATOR, who has so admirably adapted the laws of our being to the external circum be the willing agent of any villany. And sueh in fact is the character of many of these men. On the day following we overtook our emigrant companions, and thenceforward, for a week or two, we were fellow-travellers. One good effect, at least, resulted from the alliance; it materially diminished the serious fatigues of standing guard; for the party being now more numerous, there were longer intervals between each man's turns of duty. WRECK OF THE SEGUN TUM: -A BALLAD. BY JAMES KENNARD, JR. THE Spanish ship Seguntum' was wrecked on the Isles of Shoals in the winter of 1813, and all hands on board perished. FAST o'er the seas, a fav'ring breeze The Spanish ship had borne ; The sailors thought to reach their port As sunk the sun the bark dashed on, They little thought their destined port As twilight fades, and evening shades The sky grows black, and driving rack And loudly now the storm-winds blow, 'Mid snow and hail they shorten sail; The straining ship drives through the seas, Close lying to the wind; The spray, on all where it doth fall, It strikes upon the shrinking face The shower comes fast and thick. THIRTEEN in number. Their graves are still to be seen on one of the Isles of Shoals. These islands lie off the harbor of Portsmouth, (N. H.,) nine miles from the mouth of the Piscataqua. LOVE AND LOVE LETTERS. BY DAVID STRONO. THE passion of love, in its effects, curiously blends the serious with the amusing, the tragic with the comic. A faithful transcript of the mind under its influence would at least equal in interest, the movements of an opium eater, or in amusement, the antics produced by nitrous-oxide. This truth occurred to me with singular clearness this morning as I lingered over the contents of my escritoire. There, lay before me all the tokens of a score of 'loves.' And among them (more to my purpose,) were copies of my own letters written in the heat of passion and in the ardor of youth. They have hitherto been sacred-treasures that money could not buy, and for which I would not have thanked any one to tempt me with fame. But time and untruth have robbed them of their sanctity; and the keen sense of the ridiculous they inspired me with this morning, has sealed their fate. With a reservation in favor of those addressed to one lady, they go into the fire. The record of thoughts made over to her has yet an interest for me. She was the last object that lingered on my gaze as I passed out from boyhood's land of dreams; her memory is the dim twilight of my day of sentiment gone by. She is another's now,' but my life is happier in the trust that she still recurs to our acquaintance with undiminished friendship. I the more cling to the hope, and foster the belief, from the falsehood I have met elsewhere. Once shake my faith in her and thereafter my trust in woman will be confined to the limits of my organs of vision. *ཎྜ Indeed the rings, ringlets, ribbands, seals, valentines, billets, mottoes, and every other variety of the peace-disturbing arms of Cupid that lie scattered before me, are so many mute witnesses of the instability of woman's love. The history of the lock of hair that shades one corner of my paper, is the history of the rest. The story of one, is the story of all. Pledges given, and pledges broken. Therefore I do well to take fast hold on the faith of her who, giving no promises, has ever kept to the spirit of our friendship. It is well there is one. But to proceed: It has been said that a man of sense may love like a madman, but never like a fool.' The fact is self-evident; for a man would cease to be considered sensible who, for a considerable length of time, under any circumstances, continued to play the simpleton. Foolish acts however do not necessarily imply a total I want of sense. No man conducts wisely at all times; and no man was ever known to do so under the influence of the tender passion. But a man may under its influence do brilliant things. It may be a ridiculous passion, as it has been termed, still it is a |