From the Green Mountain Gem.

THE DYING WISH.

Several years since, a fine enterprising young man went out from one of our ports on a long voyage as a common sailor in a whale ship. He was a noble specimen of the intelligent, frank-hearted, honest and industrious New Englander. He returned in the course of three or four years, and his ship had been remarkably successful. By degrees he so won the confidence of his employers that he became master and part owner of one of the finest whale ships that made its way across the trackless deep. During his perilous wanderings, by night and by day, on the ocean, for years together, there was one star that ever beamed upon his vision, lighting him on to success, and guiding him safely to his destined haven. He had left among the green hills of Vermont a fair young girl, who was intelligent and interesting beyond the most of her sex. He remembered her as a sweet vision of his childhood, and her letters were his solace and delight during his long years of wandering.

How well this sailor loved this young girl whom he had left in her Green Mountain home; how eagerly he flew to her the moment his foot touched the shore, upon his return, need not be told. He married her, and, leaving her in her quiet village, he started on what he determined should be his

last voyage. He had become wealthy, and among other turns of his good fortune had purchased a lot of land at San Francisco, California, which now was becoming literally worth its weight in gold. He returned from his last voyage during the past winter, fitted up his ship in superb style, and with his devoted wife sailed for California. We refer to Capt. B. Simmons, of the Magnolia, and his wife who was a daughter of Oel Billings Esq., and sister of Frederick Billings, of Woodstock, Vermont. Soon after their arrival at San Francisco, Mrs. Simmons was attacked with a

fever. She sank under the disease and died in about two weeks.

The yearnings of the dying wife for her native hills, while feeble and pining away at such a distance from home may well be imagined by those who knew her character. Though cheered by the presence of her husband, and brother Frederick, home, with its pleasant scenes and associations, among the Green Mountains, was ever before her. In her last hours there was an incident which beautifully shows how devotedly the heart of woman clings to the loved and cherished scenes of childhood. It is given in the following extract from a letter written by one who stood by her bed when dying:

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"When she became conscious of the near approach of death, she called her husband and brother to her bedside, and told them that she did not wish to have strangers perform the last offices to her person, but selected the lady friends whom she wished to do so. Capt. Simmons asked her if there was anything in his power that he could do for her. She replied: Yes, I desire that you may not make the acquisition of wealth your chief concern, but lay up treasures in heaven. may be blest with wealth; if you are so, do not forget the poor of our native village, Woodstock. I have another wish-a vain and foolish wish-I ought not to express it, for it is weakness, folly. It can, I know, make no difference as to the manner in which my body is disposed of after deathbut may I say it? I could wish that I might lie in our little churchyard, by the side of my brother Edward.' Capt. S., his manly and generous voice stifled and choked with grief, replied, If I live, Laura, your wish shall be complied with.' 'How grateful I am,' said the dying wife. 'Only think, Frederick, addressing her brother, how kind Mr. Simmons is; he says I shall be buried in our pretty little churchyard, by the side of brother Edward.' But death was gathering upon her, and as the

dark shadows gathered around her, the dying saint, with angelic sweetness, remarked, This, then, is the dark valley; why, it is not so dark, after all. In a little while, composing her arms upon her breast, she passed through the dark valley' to that bourn from whence no traveler has returned, and to which the consecutive generations of men are hastening."

December, 1849.

From the Green Mountain Gem.

THE BEAUTIFUL IN NATURE.

How the spirit of a man of fine feeling and susceptibilities loves the beautiful in nature! To him the murmurs of a streamlet, as it rolls through some lovely vale, are like the whispers from the spirit land, where the dear departed breathe a life of eternal youth. He reclines on a moss bank, under the shade of a weeping willow, its long hangers forming a golden canopy above him. The zephyr comes and touches them; they murmur; then all is still again. There was something in that sound which calmed, and yet amazed him. He was alone in the still wood, by the shore of his native stream. Whence then that strain, which seemed like the melting echoes from the lips of the departed? Oh, there it is again! and as his eyes are raised to catch a glimpse of his unseen visitant, again the zephyr comes-and from the bosom of the weeper go forth notes of almost unearthly music, so low and yet so distinct, so sad and yet so soothing. It is but one of the voices with which nature speaks. To the gross and sensual mind it is meaningless, but to him it breathes the very soul of memory, tenderness and love.

Thus it is with the flowers that are strown so plentifully along our pathway. Many tread upon them, and crush out their sweet life, without one thought of what they are or what they mean. such they have no beauty, and the fragrance

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which they send up as a welcome to man, passes by them and mingles with the upper air.

Not so with the man of feeling. His heart is pained at beholding the insensibilities of his fellows. They tread unrelentingly on the flowers he loves. Coming often, he gathers them with great care, for they recall the image of many a flower of female loveliness, crushed in its clinging, confiding tenderness and love, by some ruthless hand. He beholds them, and weeps for fallen humanity. To him every blossoming thing on this wide earth. speaks of some corresponding human feeling or passion. Their offices are almost as numberless as the offices of thought. They tell of hope, joy, peace, meekness, confidence, love, and of sorrow, weeping and bitterness. They bloom for the early dead, and on the grass-covered graves they breathe their young lives away.

Flowers deck the conqueror's bier; they crown the festive hall; they circle the brow of beauty; they lie over the temple of the heart, and guard its secret entrance. They do yet more. They

-"have tales of the joyous wood to tell"

to the lonely captive; and yet more. of England's poetess:

In the song

"Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer, They are nature's offering, their place is there!

They speak of hope to the fainting heart;

With a voice of comfort they come and part;

They sleep in dust through the wintry hours;

They break forth in glory,--bring flowers, bring flowers!"

As a man of fine feelings and susceptibilities loves the beautiful in nature, so will he love the beautiful wherever he finds it. There is a life-like power in language which, when it clothes those tender thoughts awakened by nature's scenery. often lends freshness to the original picture, and breathes over the whole an immortality of feeling.

Bradford, Vt., June, 1850.

A. B. F. H.

From the Vermont Family Gazette.

EDITORIAL CORRESPONDENCE.

WASHINGTON, D. C., March 3, 1849.

Dear Gazette: Agreeably to promise I transmit such news and other information as I have been able to gather. I arrived here yesterday and had no difficulty in finding comfortable and pleasant lodgings, although the city is hourly filling up by hundreds and thousands. As I approached the capital the tide of travel constantly increased. Owing to the vast numbers of people on the way to witness the inauguration ceremonies, there was more or less delay and inconvenience, and numerous were the imprecations heaped upon the heads of the conductors and masters of the different railroads and steamboats. Much depends on a passenger taking care of himself and keeping in a quiet mood. As for myself, I had no difficulty. and came through very comfortably. We had some pick-pockets on our train, and one of them, Bill Henderson, an English burglar and pickpocket, was arrested in the act of pulling some bank bills from a gentleman's pocket-book, at Baltimore, just as we were starting for Washington. Being lodged in prison, it is thought he will not find it convenient to attend the inauguration on Monday.

Since my arrival here I have busied myself in looking about the capitol, observing the proceedings of the two Houses of Congress, examining the objects of interest in the various Government buildings, &c. In the National Gallery in the Patent Office building. I found a better museum of curiosities than any other I ever witnessed.

The collections made by the United States South Sea Exploring Expedition are invaluable. The various and numerous presents that have been given to our officers of Government by different foreign powers.-the collections of beasts, birds and reptiles,-the numerous superb speci