systems be infinite. But if the number be finite, and there be a mutual and counteracting attraction between these systems of the worlds, then it is evident that those on the confines of creation, according to this theory, would be subjected to an influence from the centre only, and would be drawn in that direction. The theory then requires its advocates to believe that there are no limits to creation; that there is no real distinction between time and eternity, and that matter itself is eternal; for if there be no limits to its extent, there can be no limit to its duration. There would seem to be nothing to warrant this belief but the most unphilosophical assumption alone; for if matter be thus limitless and selfsustained, the received theory of planetary motion involves a practical denial of the necessary agency of a Great Controlling Mind in the system of the universe.

W.

THE WIDOW'S HOME.

BY MARY L. LAWSON.

I.

THE widow's home is desolate, and lonely is its hearth,

That echoes not with cheerful tones nor sounds of household mirth;
And when the golden sunshine falls within each lonely room,
It only lends to her sad heart a deeper shade of gloom.
The perfumed breath of summer winds, revealing early flowers,
Steals softly through the open sash from out the garden bowers,
But bears not on its freshening breeze the sounds of childish glee
That fell upon that mother's heart, like music wild and free.

Yet often to the casement still, with anxious steps she flies,
But turns away with bitter tears and agonizing sighs;

The voices that were calling her with tones of tenderest love,
The restless and unquiet dreams of yearning fancy prove;

For she has laid them all to rest, the earliest and the last;

The bourne to which their steps are gone, no traveller e'er repassed!

On earth those fondly-cherished ones will meet her not again

The memory of her vanished bliss is all she may retain.

111.

But ever dwells she on their words, their kisses and their tears,
As if they parted yesterday, and not in long-past years;

And well can she remember yet, each gentle look and tone,

The pressure of the soft white arms that round her neck were thrown;
The pleading eyes so sadly raised in sickness and in pain,

As meekly asking aid from her who felt it was in vain;

The dying clasp; the parting sigh; life's lowest, faintest moan,
Deep graven on her heart will be, till life itself is flown.

IV.

And now her thoughts to others seem but memory of the dead,
For all save interest in the past for her has ever fled;

A locket with the differing braids of brown and golden hair,

Is dearer to her aching sight than jewels rich and rare;

The broken toy, the faded flower, that last their young hands pressed,

Are daily wet with burning tears, and clasped upon her breast;

And but one soothing hope can cheer the path yet to be trod,
The children that are lost to her, have found a home with GOD.

GUARD HOUSE TALES.

NUMBER ONE.

STORY OF JOHN JOHNSON.

I was born with the present century, or nearly so; for in February, 1800, in a quiet town in England, I drew my first breath. My father gained some notoriety, and considerable money, at the bar of my native place. He had the misfortune to be a younger brother. My mother was the daughter of a Scottish nobleman, and was rich only in family pride. I was educated in Scotland; and to a mistake made in my school, may be attributed much of my subsequent misfortunes. My first development' was impetuosity, and I was permitted to be arrogant and domineering. If I had been properly curbed, this evil might have been avoided. I was suffered, at the instance of my too-indulgent parents, to visit in certain families of the neighborhood. Among them was that of a clergyman, who was a class-mate of my father's. In his presence my general manner was so disguised that I retained his esteem; and it seemed that he was not the only one whose regard I had secured. Even when I sat in his presence, self-condemned, he would look at me and say: How like you are to your father when he was young, both in appearance and manners!' Once he told me an anecdote of the bashfulness of my father and himself: They had called upon some ladies, and finding the room quite full, neither could muster courage to knock at the door, and by mutual consent both retired unnoticed!' His daughter, like himself, mixed in society only to see its bright side; she knew no guile, and thought none. Finding that her father had so much confidence in me, the daughter gave me hers; and it was the only instance in which I did not abuse it. Why it was, I know not; but I could never bring my mind to do her a wrong. It is a hard matter to sustain two characters; and my real one was known to every one else.

A circumstance at last occurred, which drove me from my last hold upon virtuous society. A poor girl, who had been deluded by myself and companions, was brought to a sense of her lost condition. In a moment of penitence, she sought the consolation of a full confession of her errors to my father's friend, the pastor. What were his surprise and my mortification, I will not attempt to describe. It was the first thing to call me to a sense of my degradation. I had many misgivings as to my course. I would have quitted the place at once, but I could not think of doing so without an attempt, at least, to excuse myself to

OUR friend 'ROPER,' to whose pen we were indebted for the admirable sketch of 'The White Fawn,' has sent us a series of Guard-House Tales,' founded on fact, which we have reason to believe will prove of no common interest to our readers. The present story was written down from the lips of a soldier in the American army, during the Seminole war. It bears upon its face the air of perfect truthfulness; and while its incidents are spirited though simple, its lessons are highly valuable, in a moral point of view. ED. KNICKERBOOKER.

her whose good opinion I found was so dear to me. To leave her in disgrace, and to be forgotten, as a lost and unworthy acquaintance, was more than I could brook. I had sundry severe visitings of conscience. My first determination was, to go to the parson. While revolving in my mind what to do, I was joined by some of my associates in frivolity and vice. They soon dispelled the idea, and a new proposition, more suited to my old views, was made and acquiesced in; and soon all feeling was benumbed in the inordinate cup. It has been well said that the devil takes his own method to destroy those whom he has first led astray. Half-inebriation removes all qualms, and gives a man a good opinion of himself; and I soon began to reason favorably upon my own misconduct. At last I became so eloquent, that I determined to try it on' others. I posted off to the clergyman's, inquired for his daughter, and was shown into the room.

I rose as the door opened, expecting to meet the daughter, but to my great discomfiture it was the father. The good pastor looked fixedly at me, and I became sadly embarrassed as the idea of my situation flashed across my mind. I endeavored to speak, but my eloquence had all vanished. My tongue clave to the roof of my mouth,' and I could not utter a word. I was fully prepared for severe reproach, not only for my conduct but for my presumption. I waited for him to begin. Observing that I did not speak, he motioned me to be seated. I sat down mechanically, for I could easier do it than walk. He took a seat nearly opposite to me, with his eyes fixed on the floor. I took this for the gathering of a storm; but when he raised them, I could see the tears standing in them. At length he broke silence. John,' he said, 'I could have followed you to your grave with less regret than I now speak to you. What must be the feelings of your parents, when they read a letter which I have just written them? While there was hope that youthful folly was your only sin, I trusted that reform would not be dif ficult; but when I find drunkenness and crime associated in a boy of your age, I cease to hope. You have succeeded in deceiving me, who never thought that any thing dishonorable could find a place in your imagination. But a full and complete history of your misconduct has reached my ear. I do not wish to upbraid you; your own conscience will do that. Your true situation is not better known to yourself than it is to me. The very fact of your coming here, in your present condition, must convince you of your lost sense of shame. Yet with all this there is life left yet and with it hope. No restraint can effect a change, unless it be a voluntary one; and only years, long years of the most exemplary life, can do away the impression already made, or convince me that you are worthy to enter my doors again. You have ventured to ask for my daughter. Did you think that I would permit her to come into the presence of one who has put at defiance every law of society, of GOD and of man? No, John; you can never see her again, unless in my presence, until I am entirely satisfied that you are a changed man.' The good pastor's conversation had been harsher than his manner; and I found myself, instead of being roused as I expected to be, selfcondemned, and could say nothing. At length I found words to say: 'You might have saved your advice; my friends will never see me more

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until I can convince them that I have seen my error. I came here to say that I was about to leave the country, and to thank you for having ever acted toward me as a friend. It is true I felt a desire to say good-bye to your daughter, and to tell her that if she ever saw or heard of me again, it would be when I had entirely changed my manner of life. I confess it grieves me more that I must leave her in disgrace, than any thing else. I have been most honorable in all my views toward her; and my deepest regret at this moment is, that she can never think of me save as one guilty and despised. I hope she may be as happy as I am sure to be miserable.'

'I can answer for you,' said the parson; 'you will be miserable, take what course you will. If you continue in your vices, you only prolong it. The labor of reform will be a long and tedious work; and the sooner it is begun, the sooner will it be ended. I can see no good that could arise from your seeing my daughter, nor from any advice that I can give you now. I understand your feelings at this moment; but the inordinate cup will soon drown all shame. Go where you will, it will be the same, unless you quit it entirely. Your associations here are bad, and the sooner they are broken up the better. Go; and may GOD teach you to see and feel aright, is all I can say. I shall offer you no money; if I have any to spare, it shall be for your victim.'

I rose, and to my astonishment walked as though I had not drank a drop. The reproof to which I had listened had entirely sobered me. When I reached the door, to which the minister had followed me, I held out my hand, for I felt no ill will toward him. He pressed it with a warm grasp, and bade me 'GoD speed.' My heart was too full to speak, and I walked away. I had not determined on my course before; but now that I knew my parents had a full account of my delinquencies, I determined to say nothing to any one, but to watch my chance, and be off for America. While I was detained, waiting a passage to the new world, I received a note from the clergyman's daughter, appointing a meeting with me. The interview was conducted with the strictest propriety. She had heard of my conduct, but she felt more certain of my reform than her father. Before we parted, it was agreed that I should keep her advised of my movements; that I would give her a true account of my habits and prospects. She assured me that if I became settled, and successful enough to send her the means, she would follow and marry me. I at once determined and promised that I would do so. A few days after, I got word that a vessel was ready to sail. I packed up all I had, leaving behind me my watch, and a number of unpaid bills, for I knew they would be paid by my father.

There was nothing in my voyage that was remarkable, save its length. I was tossed about for thirty days on the great deep, and during nearly the whole time I was deadly sea-sick. On landing, I had a stout resolution; for I found an encouraging and kind friend in the captain. I had changed my name, to one which I knew would not be recognized, when I came on board; and when I landed I had become so well used to it that I had forgotten I had no other. My first employment was as an under-clerk to the ship owners. I should have succeeded well with them, but they discovered my real name, having heard me inquire for

body be thrown off with great force from a larger one, as the moon from the earth, or the earth from the sun, or if a small body should be projected in a straight line across the orbit of a large one, and near enough to become attracted by it, that the smaller body, which otherwise would move forward in a straight line forever, and at a uniform rate of motion, is by the law of gravitation or attraction drawn toward the larger body, and compelled to revolve forever around it in a fixed orbit, without being drawn to it by the continued operation of the power of gravity, acting upon the supposed continued operation of the projectile force; which forces are thus mutually neutralized by the production of a compound or circular movement.

This I understand to be the theory; and it is one that involves, in my belief, two remarkable fallacies. The first is, that the centrifugal or projectile force first communicated to a body in space beyond the sphere of attraction of any other body, would propel the projected body forward forever at an undiminished rate of movement. This supposes the original impulse or power once given, to act forever by a natural law; and to make an inert mass of matter, once put in motion, actually to possess the power of continuing the motion forever. How a power that is thus communicated or superadded, and has no necessary connexion with the existence of matter, should thus change its nature, and impart to it the power of motion without change or diminution; and without being counteracted by the gravitation of the body itself toward its own centre, even if there were no external resistance from the atmosphere, or from the ethereal fluid that is supposed to fill the regions of space, remains to be explained; and would seem, in connexion with the known fact of the inherent gravitation of matter toward its own centre, and its consequent tendency to fixedness, to be most unphilosophical.

The second fallacy would seem to consist in the supposition, that the action of the centripetal power, or law of attraction in the larger body, would be sufficient to change the direction of the body moving in a straight line and draw it toward the larger body, so as to cause the smaller body to revolve around the larger at a fixed distance, and without ever being drawn to it. The natural and obvious inference would be, that if a large body could thus, by the power of attraction, change the course of a small body from a straight line, so as to make it revolve around the larger one, that the orbit of its revolution would steadily and rapidly lessen, until in the course of a very few revolutions it would be drawn to the larger one. That this would be the result seems inevitable, if the power of the larger body were sufficient to change the direction of a body moving in a straight line, into an inclination toward the larger one, sufficient to cause it to revolve around the last; for if the centripetal power of the earth, for instance, could change the course of the moon, if moving in a straight line from it, into an elliptical movement around it, the attraction of the larger body upon the curve line would unquestionably be greater than it was upon the straight line; and would continue to increase in the same proportion in which it first acted upon it, and with an augmented power from the diminished resistance, until the motion of the smaller body would be absolutely overcome, by being drawn to the larger one. It would seem to be evident,