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I begin to grow weary of talking about myself; and as I have observed that listeners and readers, generally get tired before speakers and authors, will here conclude my story. Its moral is completed, and I hope cannot be mistaken. I committed to paper the result of my experience, not for the purpose of ridiculing the infirmities of my fellow creatures, or laughing at the miseries of human life. I wished, if possible, to persuade them 1 hat. a large portion of the cares of this world, from which we are so anxious to escape, are nothing more than blessings in disguise, and thus to diminish that inordinate love of riches, which is founded on the silly presumption that they are the sources of all happiness. It is under the dominion of this mistaken idea, that money becomes indeed the root of all evil, by being sought with an insatiable appetite, that swallows up all our feelings of brotherhood, and causes men to prey upon each other like the wild beasts of the forest; nay, more—for even their instinct teaches them to spare their own species. Were mankind aware of the total inability of wealth to confer content, or to make ease and leisure delightful, they would perchance seek it with less avidity, and fewer sacrifices of that integrity, which is a far more essential ingredient in human happiness, than the gold for which it is so often sacrificed. My history may also afford a useful example to those whose situations entail on them the necessity of labour and economy, by teaching them the impossibility of reconciling a life of luxury and ease, with the enjoyment of jocund spirits, lusty health, and rational happiness.

"But what has become of your DYSPEPSY all this time?" the reader will ask.

Faith, I had forgot that entirely!

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Oh! I am sick of laughing day,

And the summer's murmuring shades
She is crowned with flowers, and they
Tell me in their swift decay,

How my own youth fades
Time, whom revellers chide for flying,

Mocks me with his tardy flight,
And I waste the hours in sighing

All the long night .

If I sleep, around my bed

Many a well-known form appears, Whispering low of pleasures fled, Pointing to the darkness spread

Over my young years I On my wakeful pillow lying,

Still the mourners haunt my sight, While I wear the hours in sighing

All the long night .

Withered are the fancied bowers

Where my joys, like blossoms, hung,
And a world of song and flowers,
Sparkling waters, sunny hours,

I have lost—so young!
Like a prisoned song-bird, eyeing

Scenes that still my thought invite,
Now I pass the hours in sighing

All the long night .

Not a voice, with friendly tone,

Speaks to cheer my spirit's gloom.
Oh! the path is dark and lone,
As I wander down—unknown—

To an early tomb!
In my sad heart, Hope is dying— Hope, that once was warm and bright,
And I waste the hours in sighing

All the long night.

Love—* phantom clasped in vain,

A flower leaf on a troubled stream—
joy—a sweet, but passing strain—
A moment's sunbeam, quenched in rain— Such was my short dream I
Now I wake, and fondly trying

To recall its transient light,
Waste the weary hours in sighing

All the long night .

Yet, at times, will Fancy weave
A bright spell of visions flown,
Till I half forget to grieve,
For my heart will scarce believe

That they all are gone!
Memory, soon, too soon replying,
Wakes the dirge of past delight,
And 1 turn, to waste in sighing

All the long night.

J. R.

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