hearted, enjoys under the shadow of a weight of years. In old age most people cling the closer to the earth the nearer they approach to it. Not so Martha; her setting sun seemed to renew her youth. She was as merry as a cricket in autumn, who sings loudest the last day of its sunshine. She was at peace with herself, and therefore with all the world. The swallows observed this, and built their nests over her window, and twittered on her window-stool. Her day never seemed too long. She renewed her girlhood with the foliage of spring, while the wreath of snow, over the river on Copp's hill, reminded her of a gay plume rather than of her winding-sheet. All her wrinkles fled before the sparkling of her eyes. Young life returned upon her, and in her old age she enjoyed a morning view. Doubtless, a joyous old age, with a heart alive to youthful sensations, is nearly allied to spiritual existence. In truth, her mortality seemed swallowed up in life. "Happy Mrs. Gardner," said the neighbors; "there is nothing mortal about her-she will never die --she will sit upright in her easy-chair and seem to die, but noMartha has only been translated." Hesiod must have had such a one as Martha Gardner in view, when, speaking of the first happy ages,

"They die, or rather seem to die; they seem
From hence transported in a pleasing dream."

Indeed, Martha Gardner appeared to have gone to heaven before her time, and to have enjoyed in this world an athanasia. But the evening breeze, which was so sweetly wafting her down the quiet stream of time, to the calm latitudes, was only the precursor of a tempest which overwhelmed her gentle soul. Just before she took leave of this world, the moment she was folding all up for her last journey-just when, with her own hands, she had worked her last white dress, and instructed her grand-daughter how to adjust it, the Great Corporation sent a third summons-to her, more appalling than would have been her last summons. This blow was too much for Martha, and she became a weeping willow. Again the Great Corporation oppressed her sleep. Her day fears pursued her to her couch, where, in her phantom sleep, she wrestled with the night-mare in the shape of the Great Corporation. Trouble in youth is like the morning dew, the first gleam of the sun dissipates it; but trouble in old age weighs heavier and heavier, and the heart sinks, and drags hope downward.

But why did the Corporation of Charles River Bridge thus pursue Martha Gardner? There is but one answer. It was a Corporation.

The metaphysicians distribute man into three parts-the animal,

the intellectual, and the moral. Which of these three is most likely to prevail in a Corporation? The Corporation of Charles River Bridge was composed of many men, in that day, well remembered now for their private and public worth. Less than five of them would have redeemed Nineveh. But, unhappily, the animal and intellectual part of Corporations generally govern the body, and conscience is a non-corporate word.

While Martha was preparing for her last conflict with the Corporation, a great storm in November threatened wide desolation to the neighboring shores of Boston and Charlestown. A three days' north-east wind, assisted by the full moon, seemed to challenge the Gulph Stream. It is well known that a powerful north-east wind narrows the Gulph Stream, renders it more rapid, and drives it nearer the coast. The third day of this memorable storm afforded the sublimest scene ever beheld in New England. It seemed for a fearful moment that the order of nature was broken up, and that he who gave the sea its bounds had released the conditions; that the whole Atlantic, in a holiday, had forced the Gulf Stream into Bos ton harbor. There was not a wave to be seen; it was one white surge, one white mountain of foam breaking over the tops of the numerous islands in the harbor; while, during the momentary lull. ing of the wind and subsiding of the waters, the surges broke upon the eye like so many gambolling sea-monsters, dancing to the cease. less roar of Chelsea and Lynn beeches; for the islands in the har bor were wholly enveloped, at times, with the spray that beat against their rock-bound sides. It was a fearful day for Charles. town. The waters had already buried the wharves in their abyss. Charles River Bridge next disappeared, and was totally engulphed. Vessels might have sailed over it keel-safe. The flood was marching up the Main Street to the square. Mothers seized their infants, and were preparing to fly to the uplands. Three days more and the heights of Boston and Charlestown would have appeared like islands in the Atlantic ocean. But, happily for Boston and the vicinity, this storm occurred in November and not in May, other wise the numerous icebergs, which annually appear off the coast, might have blockaded the harbor between Cape Ann and Cape Cod, and destroyed Boston and the neighboring sea-ports for many years. In the last efforts of this storm, the little cottage of Martha Gardner began to tremble. The surge bore down on her tottering tene ment, while the winds lashed every returning billow into new fury. The neighbors collected around her dwelling, and besought her to fly from instant ruin. She, nothing daunted, ascended to her cham ber window, and opening it, addressed them :-" I will not fly," said she. "Let Lynn beach roar, and let the winds and the waves rage

three more days; if my house moves, it shall be my ark, it shall be my cradle; I will move with it. I will neither fly from the storm nor look back, but will look up! I have nothing to fear from the war of elements. My destruction comes not in the whirlwind nor in the tempest, but from a broken heart. Welcome, ye stormy winds and raging waves, ye are but ministers of Supreme Power, flying messengers ; and when your errand is done, ye are quiet as a landscape. When the storm is passed, all will smile again. Ye are now my diversion-ye are repose to my troubled spirit-ye lull me to rest; when ye are quiet, the Great Corporation will trouble my sleep. All natural evils are playthings. This tempest shakes my dwelling, but not my soul; the thunder is harmless the moment it is heard; the earthquake brings impartial ruin; but I, a poor widow, am singled out by the Great Corporation, and pursued to my dying bed-chamber. Yes, my soul enjoys this tempest; I look down on it, I am lifted above it, I had rather see this tempest with open eyes than the Great Corporation in my sleep. This storm gives me new courage, a new spirit; and raises me far above its idle rage. I am above the storm, I am on the top of Jacob's ladder, and see the heavenly blue. This storm quiets my soul, it has caused, for a moment, Charles River Bridge to disappear. I am in a new element, I am at the gate of heaven, and hear a voice you cannot hear -I hear a voice above the storm, saying, 'Martha Gardner shall be avenged, but not in her day.' The time is coming when there shall be no more passing over that Bridge than there is at this moment. It shall be desolate and forsaken-a fishing-place; the curlew, and grey gull, and stormy pettrel shall there rest in quiet. The traveller shall pass over another highway, and, turning his head, shall say, 'Behold the great highway of the North and of the East; behold how desolate!' And it shall be desolate ; but neither storm, nor tempest, nor fire, nor earthquake shall destroy it. It shall be like a barren spot in a fertile valley. All around it shall flourish; the voice of prosperity shall echo and re-echo across the river from all the hills of Boston, even to the heights of Charlestown, and thence among the islands. But that spot shall become a solitude, a barren streak in a green circle; the grass shall spring from the crevices, but it shall wither before the mid-day sun. No living thing shall pass over it; a lost child shall not be sought in that desolate path. The traveller shall shun it, and shall pass another way to the great city; and they of the great city shall shun it, and pass another way; and they of the Great Corporation shall avoid it-turn from it, and pass another way. It shall disappear in all its glory, as the great highway of the North, and still remain visible, as an everlasting monument. And the stranger shall come from the uttermost parts

of the earth to behold the beautiful city; and he shall ascend be mount of my fathers, and shall view the beautiful city, begirt wa mountains of emerald; and he shall behold the thousand villas which shall stud the lawns like diamonds, and the distant hills pouring down plenty; while the Atlantic, bearing on her bosom the harvest of the world, shall bow at her footstool. And the eyes of the stranger shall weary in beholding new beauties, and his senses sleep from weariness of beholding the ever-varying prospect changing with every passing cloud; and he shall descend from the mount of my father and return to the beautiful city; but when he shall cast his eye on this spot, the charm shall dissolve; he shall stand amazed, and demand-Why that solitude 'mid universal life?"

Dimly seen through the spray, she now withdrew from the storm, and gently closed the window. All was silent; for, as she did not appear to address the spectators, no one knew how to reply to her. At length, William Goodwin, a man of ardent temperament and generous feelings, said "Truly, that was Martha Gardner's coun tenance, I cannot be deceived, for the flash of her eyes created, amid the storm, a rainbow around her head; but it was not—no, it was not Martha Gardner's voice. This means something, here is a mystery; some of us may live to see it unravelled; but Martha Gardner never uttered all that."

The storm immediately died away. The next morning was fair weather. Martha Gardner soon after passed through her last conflict with the Corporation, and died.

The world know all the rest. The traveller who passes over Warren Bridge, and turns his eye over his shoulder and beholds the present desolation of Charles River Bridge, and sees the im mense crowd passing over the new highway, if he hath any faith in moral re-action, will say "In truth, Martha Gardner built Warren Bridge ;" and in other times it may be said, "as true as Martha Gardner built Warren Bridge."*

The public are familiar with the suit lately decided in the U. S. Supreme Court of Errors, between the proprietors of Charles River and Warren Bridges. The decision was against the Charles River Bridge, and "the Great Corpora tion" have vainly petitioned the Massachusetts Legislature for a release from the conditions of their Charter. Their bridge is seldom or never passed, and must soon become impassable. The distant reader may ask-" Why is this?" The answer is-Warren Bridge is free, so rendered by an act of the Legislature; and few persons, not even the proprietors themselves, choose to pay toll for the privilege of crossing Charles River Bridge.-Ed.

A WOFUL MADRIGAL,

Inscribed to the Fair Sex.

PERPLEXING creatures, curious, queer, perverse, •
Attend! while I, in honey-dropping strains,
Your charms immeasurably fair rehearse,

And all the woes and all the arrowy pains,

Shot from your eyes right through my riddled heart, Unto mankind and womankind impart.

I loved Matilda Jane Amelia Smith

Hear it, ye stars-and thou, inconstant moon, Between thy golden horns receive the pith

Of this my song; and oh, accord the boon Which now I ask, and which, if thou'lt bestow, I'll tell thee all the matter that I know!.

Shed through my lattice thy transcendant light,
Lean from thy sapphire throne, and softly peer
Through my Venetian blinds, oh, Queen of Night!
And trim the wicks of thy great chandelier,
So that I may beneath thy silvery shine
With silvery pen indite the silvery line.

Of love the woes I sing-as Virgil did,

The man who first decamped from Trojan shores-

Yes! Ille ego-I am he―ibid,

The same, who erst occasioned deepest snores, And soundest sleep by stanzas in this metre, Thought quite complete, but these are much completer.

I am not one of that illustrious few

Who wrote the Croaker pieces-no, not I

I wish I was: then, ladies, unto you

I might my lyre's mellifluous cadence try

To strike not vainly,-and such music pour

That you would throng my room, like Stewart's store.

But Halleck's Muse is silent; from her seat,
Celestial on the topmost flowery height

Of beautiful Olympus, on her feet

She cometh not to stray beneath the Night That now o'er all the world poetic lies, Because the Morning Star disdains to rise.

So, be content, ye lovely damosels,

That I, a caged Canary, dare to sing,
While the sweet Nightingale in stillness dwells
Hushed into slumber on his folded wing.
List then, while I do elevate the strain,
Provoked by thee, unkind Matilda Jane.