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We sometimes see people strive to attain what is beyond their reach. After many vain attempts, they give up the pursuit, and then pretend that the object they sought so ardently is worthless, and that they would not have it if they could. Such people are alluded to in the following Fable.

A Fox, who having failed to pick,

Though prowling all around the village,
The bones of goose, or duck, or chick,

Was bent on any sort of pillage;

Saw, from a trellis, hanging high,

Some Grapes, with purple bloom inviting;

His jaws with heat and hunger dry,
The luscious fruit would fain be biting.

His carcass than a weasel's thinner,
Made him for every prize alert ;

He thought, though fortune brought no dinner,
'T was best secure a good dessert.

A tantalizing branch to gain,

With many a spring, and many a bound,
He strove; and finding all in vain,

With this remark he quits the ground:

"Let those who like such trash, devour ;·
I'll range elsewhere for better prog;
The worthless Grapes, so green and sour,
Are scarcely fit to feed a hog!"

HAPPINESS.

VARIOUS, sincere, and constant are the efforts of men to procure that happiness which the nature of the mind requires; but most seem to be ignorant both of the source and means of genuine felicity.

Religion alone can afford true joy and permanent peace. It is this that inspires fortitude, supports patience, and by its prospects and promises, throws a cheering ray into the darkest shade of human life.

"Where dwells this sovereign bliss? Where doth it grow? Know, mortals, happiness ne'er dwelt below;

Look at yon heaven go seek the blessing there,

Be heaven thy aim, thy soul's eternal care;
Nothing but God, and God alone you'll find
Can fill a boundless and immortal mind."-

THE RECLUSE OF THE LAKE.

"It is not all a dream."

In the immediate vicinity of Lake George, there was, a few years since, a humble dwelling, which always attracted the traveller's attention, though there was nothing peculiar about it, save a rich, sloping greensward in front, and a luxuriant honeysuckle, which almost concealed the door, and loaded the air with its fragrance.

A stranger would have supposed that woman's tasteful hand had been there, adorning poverty itself with "wreathed smiles"; but seldom had her foot pressed the verdant velvet of that turf, and no female hand trained the graceful tendrils of that exuberant vine. The romantic little spot was the solitary home of Arthur Vandellyn, an artist and a poet! No chilling disappointment, no embittered misanthropy, occasioned his retirement from the world. He never indulged that false idea, so shameful to intellect, that the powerful tide of genius must necessarily be turbid and restless. In him, it was a clear, deep, sunny stream, reflecting all of bright and beautiful in earth, or heaven; but his nature was timid, and he shrank from the ostentation of learning, the pageantry of

wealth, and the officiousness of vulgarity, as things which could neither obtain his sympathy, nor endurance. The Recluse was the only son of a wealthy Batavian merchant, who had sent him to New England to be educated.

His mother had died when he was a mere babe; and his father carefully concealed from him the amount of his large fortune, lest the knowledge should early lead him to extravagance and dissipation. This well founded anxiety induced him to make a very singular arrangement in the disposal of his wealth.

Arthur Vandellyn was nineteen years old when he quitted the university; and, on that day, he received tidings of his father's death, and became acquainted with the contents of his will.

Fifteen thousand dollars were to be paid him immediately; twenty thousand more, when he was thirty years of age; and his whole fortune, without reserve, on his fortyfifth birthday; but, in case one hundred dollars were ever borrowed in advance, his title was to be transferred to a distant relative.

Limited as this income was, compared to what it would have been, if left to the ordinary course of law, the young student thought it amply sufficient to accomplish all his favorite projects.

After travelling in New York a few weeks, he purchased the cottage we have mentioned, then almost in a ruinous condition. He made no very important change in the exterior of the dwelling, but within, carpets, ottomans, vases, and mirrors proclaimed a wealthy and tasteful resident. His own portrait, dis

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tinguished by its strong, bold, peculiar light; views of the surrounding scenery; some wild and fearful enough for the pencil of Salvator Rosa, and others, calm, sequestered, and luxuriant, as the spots over which Claude loved to throw his bland, warm coloring;-a guitar, piano, four or five fine flutes, and a time-piece, of Genevan workmanship, in which the hours with winged feet flew round, offering rose wreaths to each other; all served to give the interior of the mansion something of the magic beauty of fairy land.

The neighbors made various ingenious attempts to explore a place, of which many a wonderful tale was told; but Arthur Vandellyn avoided all society with a coldness and hauteur, which at once excited curiosity, and forbade intrusion. A stud of noble horses, a leash of beautiful greyhounds, a fine collection of birds, and one favorite man servant, were his only companions.

Yet his disposition was kind, and his feelings social. The buzzing of insects, the twittering of birds, and the ringing laughter of childhood, filled him with delightful sensations.

Much of religion, too, entered into his lonely musings; for he read more on earth's fair volume than "philosophy has ever dreamed of." To the "pure in heart," the glad melody of nature's voice always speaks of heaven; and her beaming face reflects much of truth, as well as poetry, on the quiet stream of thought. There is no place where her silent eloquence comes upon the soul so much like celestial music, felt, but not heard, as from the crystal

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