years, by vessels propelled by steam, which was before the return of the former to this country, the subject was treated with the utmost levity and ridicule for the whole session.

When their boat began to run in the river, it was soon seen, that it would interfere with the interests of those ordinarily engaged in navigating that stream. Mr. Fulton was looked upon as an innovator of the good old customs of by-gone days; and spoken of, and treated as one introducing projects baneful to society. The boat became an object of hatred; and was often intentionally run foul of, and greatly injured, by vessels navigating the river. This spirit of hostility increased so fast, that the Legislature of the State passed an act declaring all combinations to destroy the boat, or wilful attempts to injure her, public offences, punishable with fine and imprisonment.

Mr. Fulton lived to see a dozen boats built, and moved by that wonderful agent, whose power was first successfully applied for that purpose, by means discovered by his matchless genius. Each successive boat was greatly improved; and the improvements have been carried on, until they have arrived to a state of perfection which we can hardly expect to see much exceeded. The two last boats he had the superintendence of, were the steam frigates, "Fulton," and the "Mute;" the latter being designed for the purpose of carrying on the submarine warfare. The first was launched, and nearly completed, before Mr. Fulton's decease. The Hull of the Mute not quite completed, was thrown aside, because no one could be found to finish her, without the aid of that genius that had designed her.

The inventions of Mr. Fulton proved little else than a bill of expense. The rights intended to be secured by his vari ous patents, were constantly invaded by unprincipled persons; and he was drawn into expensive, vexatious and almost endless lawsuits. In the winter of 1815, on his return from Court, at Trenton, New Jersey, he took a violent cold that laid him upon the bed of death. He expired Feb. 24th, leaving one son and three daughters, very young, and in destitute circumstances but he left them the invaluable inheritance of his name and character, which will live in the hearts of his countrymen, as long as genius, patriotism and virtue are respected and honored.

While every American is enjoying the benefits resulting from the labors of Robert Fulton-while they see steam boats skimming all the waters in and about our extensive and prosperous

country, may they remember to whom, (under Providence,) they are indebted for all these blessings-May they remember the claims, and do justice to the children of that patriot, who though" an annuity of twenty thousand pounds a year were granted him, would sacrifice all to the safety and independence of his country."

A.

THE VOICE.

The voice-its melody met the ear,

Like a sound we should look to the heavens to hear;
As the softened light of the Summer sky
Where the sun went down will touch the eye,
When we pause to dream of a world afar,
Above the home of the evening star-
And the odours of flowers that freight the air,
With the song of the bright ones warbling there.

Methinks, when the world looks drear and dark,
And the waves of trouble ingulph my bark--
When the clouds above me are black with wrath;
And the lightning is all that illumes my path--
When I set my feet but with doubt and dread—
When the friend that I loved is false or dead-
In pain, in danger, in grief, or care,

I would hear that voice poured out in prayer.

When the clouds that I feared are dissolved in light,
The storms are past, and the world looks bright-
While I smoothly glide o'er a peaceful sea,
With a breeze all fragrance and purity-
When the friend that I chose is the true one still,
The guide through good, and the guard through ill,
Who has led me safe through the devious ways,
I would hear that voice sent up in praise!

And when, for the house where the pale ones go,
My fluttering pulse grows faint and slow-
When I fain some whisper of peace would hear,
To soften my way to an unknown sphere;
Oh! then, for a voice like that, to fling
Its notes on my spirit's departing wing!
But I never must hear its sound in mirth,
At the insect glow of the joys of earth.

H. F. G.

CATHARINE WELLS.

In the Antumn of the year 1820, I found myself in our great commercial metropolis, New Orleans; and never did I more practically assent to the truth of the sentiment, that, "there is no scene, in which a reflecting being feels himself so much alone, as in the midst of a crowded city: there he is a unit ;" he can claim sympathy from no one, no kind heart, in all the busy changing crowd, beats in unison with his; no familiar voice bids him "God speed "-his self-love is wounded by the reflection, which is pressed upon him of his own insignificance; and perhaps it is this, which leads him with a feeling of sympathy, to visit the lone sanctuary, to which the steps of all this restless crowd must at last tend.

Prompted by such feelings, at the close of a sultry day in September, I wandered to the strangers' burying ground in New Orleans; and here, though many a weary mile separated me from my home, did I see names once familiar as 66 a household tale," some even of my former school-mates, who, coming hither in pursuit of wealth, had fallen victims to the diseases of the climate. I lingered around their graves, as I thought of their distant homes, the agony of their friends, of the "vacant chair" beside the domestic hearth,-but my attention was particularly arrested by one stone, which from the peculiarity of its appearance and the evident care with which it had been erected, seemed to bespeak for it distinction. I approached it, and read: “to the memory of Catharine Graham, aged 24. wife of Henry Graham, and daughter of James Wells, D. D. of - village in Connecticut." As I read the name, an indistinct shadowy recollection crossed my mind, one of those associations which connect the present with the past, we know not why or how; one of those broken links in the chain of thought, which memory sometimes refuses to unite; but at others, will bring before us, in all the freshness of their former coloring. For a moment, I thought only of the name, as one not wholly foreign to my ear, connected with some undefined images of past pleasure; again I recurred to it, and it all flashed upon my mind. I had passed one of my college vacations in a beautiful village on the banks of the Connecticut; the remembrance of individual scenes and characters, which had enlivened it, had long been forgotten, but the tout ensemble was there; for it had in

fluenced my feelings, and aided in the coloringof my future character. There surrounded by all that was most attractive in natural scenery, I had looked beyond the gifts, to their beneficent Giver; I had contrasted, with delight, the happy independence of feeling and situation, which characterize our New England farmers, with the restraint, oppression, and poverty, of the peasantry in other countries, with which, description had rendered me so familiar. The result of such observations had been, to make me a better Christian, a more devoted patriot ;-but, led on by memories of the past, I forget that I am wandering far from my subject. The queen of all our little rural fetes, the pride of the village, was Catharine Wells, the daughter of its clergymen; in truth, she was a lovely little creature, so gay and artless, you would have said thought never shaded that fine brow, or marked one line upon that lovely face; but this was only in her mirthful moments. Catharine was not always thus: she could look sad, ay, and weep too, over a tale of imaginary suffering, and lend her best efforts to relieve real wo'; but her happy heart viewed every object through the bright medium of imagination in looking to the future, she had certainly never formed any definite wishes or expectations for herself, but then she believed it must be happy; her buoyant spirit leaped over the thorny paths, and lingered only in the pleasant walks, to pluck its roses. The only serious misfortune she had ever known, was the death of her mother, but then as she was too young to appreciate the blessing, she felt not its loss; an only child, she had no rival in her father's affection. Such was Catharine Wells ten years before, and as I walked over her grave, so far from the scenes of her childhood's home, and in fancy beheld her rising before me, in all the loveliness of early youth, I longed to know something of her after history.

A few days afterwards, chance introduced me to the acquaintance of a gentleman who had for several years been a resident in this city. I expressed to him my wish to know something of my village favorite. When I mentioned her name, he immediately recognized it. "Her's was a melancholy story," said he, "she died at my house, and we all were deeply interested in the young stranger.' Mr. Wells, the father of Catharine, was a devoted servant of "him who went about doing good." He was originally designed for the law, but early disappointments had given a different bias to his feelings; and, with all the powers of a vigorous mind, he had engaged in the theological stu

dies; filled with love to his fellow-creatures; if he erred, it was on the side of charity, and suspected not that evil in others, to which his own heart was a stranger. Educated in such a school, it is not surprising, that the unsuspicious Catharine trusted to every profession of regard, and loved, with ardor, the semblance of moral beauty, without looking farther, to inquire if the reality existed. It was this artless manner which gave a charm to all she said and did, and sometimes led the transient observer, to doubt the powers of a mind which required only to be developed by circumstances, to prove its strength. A rigid economist of time, Mr. Wells had so divided that of his daughter, that no hour was left for ennui; her books, her drawing, her time for visiting his poor parishioners, even the periods for amusement, were all marked for her; and at the close of such a day, when the powers of the heart and mind had all been called into exercise, imparting vigor and enjoyment to both, glowing with health, with the smile of youth upon her countenance, Catharine ran to her father, to relate some adventure she had met with in her walk, or some piece of village news, his heart expanded with gratitude for such a blessing, and as he looked at her, in her innocent loveliness, and thought her almost as beautiful as a being of the imagination, he breathed a prayer, that her future path might be through life's pleasant scenes.

It was about this period, when Catharine had just entered her sixteenth year, that a long suspended friendship was renewed, by the reception of a letter from Mr. Graham, a rich planter in Louisiana. Different in character, the friendship which had subsisted between him and Mr. Wells, had been the result of circumstances, rather than of choice. The strict adherence to right, the manly defence of his principles, and the powers of Mr. Wells's mind, had excited the interest of young Graham; while the careless generosity, the candid temper, and kind feelings of the latter, had endeared him to his friends-for such is the very nature of virtue, especially in the young, that it seizes upon the good, extracts the sweets, while faults and frailties are forgotten. But the friendships of youth, ardent as they at first may be, are often broken. As we advance in life, new connexions are formed, new pursuits and new interests engage us, fortune points our path far from each other; and only at distant intervals, a transient meeting, an occasional letter, renews the remembrance of former feelings.