Whilst Death, the dotard! with his drowsy cup,
Could find no thirsty souls to drink with him,—
And when his worthless trade was given up,

Though grim he looketh now, he'd look more grim. But none escape his scythe-of mortals, none, Excepting Enoch, and that other one;

I need not name him for his name you know;
His heavenly flight, no doubt, you all desire.
Elisha stood, with open mouth, below,

And saw his Master mount the steeds of fire;
Then, flashing upward from this world of wo,

He pierced the realms of space-ascending higher Till down from heaven his mantle fell to earth; For human finery there is little worth.

NEW YORK, May, 1846.

A NIGHT ON THE ALLEGANIES.

BY PASCHAL DONALDSON.

THOSE of my readers who may have been so unlucky as to cross the Alleganies in a six-passenger coach, wherein nine large men were crowded, are undoubtedly keenly sensible of the fact that they have suffered a most insufferable annoyance. Every one who has been placed in such a situation will, moreover, have discovered a wonderful diversity between promises and realities; and that those very urbane gentlemen who officiate as stage-agents, in Philadelphia and elsewhere, and answer travellers' questions with so much apparent promptitude and deep concern, possess a capacity for invention remarkably Munchausen-like. A stage-coach such as they describe would not be very far inferior to a fairy-car, which goes over the mountains so smoothly and pleasantly that the wayfarer may lie down as it were on a couch of flowers, and dream his journeying hours away. Often, when the honest creditor of these fine fictions comes to a knowledge of the sober facts, and finds himself seated in a wretched

wagon with most obstinate springs, while the sad prospect of a long, mountainous road lies directly before him, he presumes to remonstrate talk of breach of promise, et cetera. But those to whom he addresses his complaints are the most innocent creatures in the world. "They are not in the fault; they never made any rash promises; and they think, for their part, that the Philadelphia rogues ought to be ashamed of themselves to tell so much more than the truth!"

Early in the winter of 1845, I was one of eight passengers in a coach that went out from Chambersburg westward. The night, which was far advanced, had become chilly and uncomfortable; and a drizzling fog, that had lingered for several hours, was slowly disappearing before a downright northeastern storm of rain.

My seven fellow-travellers were very good men in their way; but, with one or two exceptions, they were somewhat uncouth and disagreeable. As, however, myself and one other happened to occupy the back seat, I possessed as comfortable a situation as the coach afforded; and I was, therefore, not much annoyed by the rough demeanor of those who sat around and before me.

I soon observed, though he was a person of good address, and intelligent, that my companion who sat beside me was a young traveller, perhaps on his first journey. This fact was plainly indicated by his evident surprise that the Philadelphia agents, of whom I have spoken above, should have deceived him. He would scarcely believe himself

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on the right road. "For," he said, "that gentlemanly man to whom I paid my fare felt the utmost interest in my comfort and convenience. Indeed, he was so fearful that I would be imposed upon by the opposition, that he offered to send me to Pittsburg for two dollars less than the usual charge!"

As the other passengers were so rude as to laugh at this unsophisticated speech, the stranger said no more; but, leaning his head against the leathern cushion, essayed to sleep; and very soon, in fact, as the time wore heavily away, and the horses toiled slowly up the mountains, the rain pattering meanwhile over our heads, we all fell into an uneasy doze, from which we were not aroused until the coach paused at the foot of "Sideling hill.”

The night was so excessively dark that the nearest object was quite undiscernible; and consequently, when the driver presented an additional passenger for admission in the coach, it was impossible to descry the features, or even the sex, of the intruder. When our eyes fail us, however, we are apt to refer our judgment to our ears; and these plainly apprized us that the voice of the newcomer was that of a woman. Of course, she was handed to the back seat, and took the place between myself and our friend whom the "gentlemanly man" had so cruelly deceived.

The stranger being thus, as I have said, completely concealed by the darkness, and having already spoken with the soft tones of a woman, became "an object of

interest," especially to my friend the youthful traveller a gallant but somewhat romantic Pennsylvanian—who, doubtless, supposing her to be young and beautiful, and knowing her to be alone and unprotected, at once addressed her, and rather broadly hinted his surprise that she should be travelling in such inclement weather. The stranger replied, briefly, that urgent business required her presence in the west; when a pause of some minutes ensued, during which the passengers again fell into an uneasy sleep.

A quarter hour thus passed, and I was quietly but wakefully musing, when I heard the Pennsylvanian inquire of the lady, in a low and tender voice, if she were not suffering with the cold.

She replied in the negative.

"I trust you are warmly clad, for the air is very sharp," resumed the speaker. "Nay, you are deceiving me-I am sure you are shivering! Pray, take my cloak-"

"No-no-my dear sir; do not disturb yourself. I do assure you, I am comfortable-very comfortable. Nay, I do not need the cloak !"

But the lady's words were evidently vain. The goodhearted traveller had, in the midst of her remonstrance, withdrawn the cloak from his own shoulders and placed it on those of the lady.

"I pray you, my dear madam, do not refuse it: surely, no gentleman can bear to hear you shivering with the cold."