ipple-pies, or saucers full of preserved peaches and pears; but it was always sure to boast an enormous dish of balls of weetened dough, fried in hog's fat, and called dough-nuts, -a delicious kind of cake, at present scarce known in the city, excepting in genuine Dutch families. The tea was served out of a majestic delft teapot, ornanented with paintings of fat little Dutch shepherds and shepherdesses tending pigs-with boats sailing in the air, and houses built in the clouds, and sundry other ingenious Dutch fantasies. The beaux distinguished themselves by their adroitness in replenishing this pot, from a huge copper teakettle, which would have made the pigmy macaronies of hese degenerate days sweat merely to look at it. To sweeten the beverage, a lump of sugar was laid beside each cup; and the company alternately nibbled and sipped with great decorum, until an improvement was introduced by a shrewd and economic old lady,-which was, to suspend a arge lump directly over the tea-table, by a string from the ceiling, so that it could be swung from mouth to mouth. At these primitive tea-parties, the utmost propriety and dignity of deportment prevailed. No flirting nor coquetting, no gambling of old ladies, nor høyden chattering and romping of young ones—no self-satisfied struttings of wealthy gentlemen, with their brains in their pockets, nor amusing conceits, and monkey divertisements, of smart, young gentlemen, with no brains at all. On the contrary, the young ladies seated hemselves demurely in their rush-bottomed chairs, and knit their own woollen stockings; nor ever opened their lips, excepting to say, "Yes, sir," or " Yes, madam," to any question that was asked them; behaving, in all things, like decent, well educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each of them ranquilly smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contemplaion of the blue and white tiles, with which the fire-places vere decorated. The parties broke up without noise and without confusion. They were carried home by their own carriages, that is to ay, by the vehicles nature had provided them, excepting uch of the wealthy as could afford to keep a wagon. The gentlemen gallantly attended their fair ones to their respecive abodes, and took leave of them at the door. LESSON CXXI. The Recluse.-BEATTIE. Es of appetite, the clouds of care, o future age shall hear my name, ure far transcends the fairest hopes of fame. and the reward of toil is rest. my prayer for virtue and for peace. th and fame, of pomp and power possessed, ever felt his weight of wo decrease? what avails the lore of Rome and Greece, heaven-prompted, and harmonious string, Lust of Ophir, or the Tyrian fleece, art, fortune, enterprise, can bring, -orn, remorse, or pride, the bosom wring? ty adorn the marble tomb trophies, rhymes and scutcheons of renown, eep dungeon of some Gothic dome, e night and desolation ever frown; be the breezy hill that skirts the down, a green, grassy turf is all I crave, here and there a violet bestrown, a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave; an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave. ther let the village swain repair, There let the shepherd's pipe, the live-long day And when mild evening comes in mantle gray, For though I fly to escape from Fortune's rage, And bear the scars of envy, spite and scorn, Yet with mankind no horrid war I wage, Yet with no impious spleen my breast is torn: For virtue lost, and ruined man, I mourn. O man, creation's pride, Heaven's darling child, Whom Nature's best, divinest gifts adorn, Why from thy home are truth and joy exiled, And all thy favorite haunts with blood and tears defiled? Along yon glittering sky what glory streams! What forms of mournful, loathsome, furious mien! Oh! when shall that eternal morn appear, These dreadful forms to chase, this chaos dark to clear? O thou, at whose creative smile, yon heaven, Melt the hard heart to love and mercy's sway, And cheer the wandering soul, and light him on the way. LESSON CXXII. Farewell to the Dead.-MRS. HEMANS E near !-ere yet the dust bright paleness of the settled brow, your brother, and embrace him now, still and solemn trust: ear !-once more let kindred lips be pressed cold cheek; then bear him to his rest. ok yet on this young face! all the beauty, from amongst us gone, f its image, even where most it shone, ddening its hearth and race? ows the semblance on man's heart impressedear! and bear the beautiful to rest. weep, and it is well; -s befit earth's partings.-Yesterday er he moved-the welcome and the blessed ze! and bear the silent unto rest. ok yet on him, whose eye ours no more in sadness or in mirth! not fair amidst the sons of earth, e beings born to die? where death has power may love be blessed ear! and bear ye the beloved to rest. ow may the mother's heart on her son, and dare to hope again? ring's rich promise hath been given in vain, he lovely must depart! ot gone, our brightest and our best?near! and bear the early-called to rest. Look on him! is he laid To slumber from the harvest or the chase? Too still and sad the smile upon his face ; Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest— His voice of mirth hath ceased Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast- Yet mourn ye not as they Whose spirit's light is quenched!—for him the past All is not here of our beloved and blessed- LESSON CXXIII. Baneful Effects of Intemperance upon Domestic Life. C. SPRAGUE. THE common calamities of life may be endured. Poverty, kness, and even death, may be met; but there is that ich, while it brings all these with it, is worse than all ese together. When the husband and father forgets the ties he once delighted to fulfil, and, by slow degrees, bemes the creature of intemperance, there enters into his use the sorrow that rends the spirit, that cannot be allevied, that will not be comforted. It is here, above all, where she, who has ventured every ng, feels that every thing is lost. Woman, silent-suffering, voted woman, here bends to her direst affliction. The easure of her wo is, in truth, full, whose husband is a |