The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1858-04-08

After an illness of few days, she died and
some of the ladies of our neighborhood went to
arrange all things for her funeral. They put
the room In decent order, arranged the body in
snowy garments, smoothed back the tangled
hair, and over it tied q loose cap. '
The old man went in when they had finished
their work. he stood q long time, LOOKING
silently toward the bed, toward the hands that
had worked so faithfully for him, now folded in
the stiffness Of death, and the pale face that in
in its last sleep, had 81 pleasanter look than il
had ever worn in life. Then smile of intense
satisfaction, or, it may be, of pride, broke over
his face, as he said
swell, ladies, must say, really, death is
very becoming to my wife," tftrt
The procession moves on. Poor old man
his occupations gone. He has no one to scold
at nov, and he can now so longer be a " gin
tleman. He must work or beg. Do you see
that little stiff.looking brown cottage. with
snowy curtains hanging in even folds from
every window, and the stainless steps in front
which the rain scarcely dare touch
Just as the ind yelling spirit will stamp it,
characteristics upon the face, 90 that some
faces perfect in features and coloring will re-
pei US, while others attract us, and win US by
an indescribabe charm, so house grows a,
last to be an expression of the pervading spiri,
within. Passing along the streets of a city
you will see some houses that have " Home .
indeliby stamped upon them, and the doors
look as if they would swing back of themselves
to give you welcome. You feel that some
friend lives there, and you ought not to go
away. Other houses, of the same architectural
beauty and pleassntnees of location, frown
upon you, and you would as soon think of ap-
plying for entrance to q prison, as to one OF
them. Such one is the brown house across
the way. The old man who lives there has
Golfers full of gold, and still the one grea. want
of which he is conscious, the object for which
he lives and tolls, is gold, more gold. Pitiful
sigbtl an old man. to whom the last of life
might be foil Of all rich enjoyment and sweet
repose, golden autumn time, whose rich re.
suits should tell what the spring and summer
of life had done, turning aside from the beauty
of earth, the tenderness of friendship, and the
pure joys of benevolence, to heap up the shi.
ming ore, which he must so soon leave His sis
ter, stern, cold woman, who has lived with him
since his wife's death, ia devotee to the art of
housekeeping. She preserves the spotless pu-
rity of windows, curtains, and carpets. Woe to
the speck of dust that dares invade her domin-
ions. She is continually waging war of ex-
termination, and trying to establish the empire
of neatness. Do you wonder that the house
has so cold and repelling an aspect that you
feel no call to enter?
Let US turn from it. Let us look into the
street. Our poet is passing now. Did you
think there was no poet in the West? Look
at htm, and be convinced of your mistake. He
is no foreign Importation, but an original pro-
duction of the soil, which has hitherto been
deemed more favorable 70 vegetable than to in
tellectual growth.
His black hair is very long, and worn in the
most approved poetical style. He looks down.
ward, unconscious of ordinary affairs, lost in
the misty depths of - cannot find my way
clearly to the end of that sentence. You must
have heard of our poet. He wrote that heart.
moving sonnet in the Magazine, com.
mencing-.
80 ssdeyed Moon, vainly look to thee"
he is not without honor in his own country.
BE writes songs for the young serenaders,
hymns for Sunday school celebrations, and every
fortunate nIarrieso, - Ill or 4A-rihla
acvsaerIs, furnishes the inspiration for his muse.
The poet passes.
That portly gentleman, with such well to
do, satisfied air, is Mr.. Gubbins. He is hap
py man. He thinks this world is great inven-
ton, and himself not the least important item
thereof. His house is the largest on the ave-
nue. and furnished without regard to the ex-
pense. His library is well filled with books,
the pictures on the walls were bought in Rome,
his horses are the finest in the country, and his
daughters are growing up graceful and accom-
plished. What more than these can the heart
Of man desire? He hangs rich silks on his
wife, decks her in diamonds, wraps her in cost
ly furs, and then with sublime satisfaction con-
templates her, while in every lineament of his
face is the announcement, This is my wife,
Mrs. Gubbins. am Mr.. Gubbins, of the well.
known firm of Gubbins, Smith, 4 Col" Com
Portable Mr.. Gubbins May your shadow never
be less But pass along. Your goodly pro-
portions block the way. hear an announce
ment, Letters and magazines by the Eastern
rnaill" Let ne have them. No more gossip
tonight.