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EFFECT OF MUSIC ON HEALTH.

EFFECT OF MUSIC ON HEALTH.-The influence of music upon the mind is so refining, and tends so much to beget feelings of kindness and benevolence, thus beneficially affecting the health, that no system of education can be considered complete, which does not provide this important means of moral training. Music is taught in most schools on the continent; and it is to this circumstance, among others, that, as I conceive, the superiority of the Germans and Italians over ourselves in this science, is mainly attributable. Beside, are we not equally with them, Saxons, and members of the great German family; and are not, therefore, our natural capabilities originally the same? The notion that our countrymen have comparatively no ear for music," is an unfounded prejudice. Our actual inferiority arises solely from the want of cultivation.-Noah.

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NOTICES OF BOOKS.

MARY L. DUNCAN: Being Recollections of a Daughter, by her Mother. From the second Edinburgh edition. New York: Robert Carter. 1842.

This is a beautifully printed volume, of 268 pages, and gives the life of a sweet-tempered and interesting child, a dutiful and pious daughter, an affectionate and gentle wife, and a tender and judicious mother.

Mrs. Lundie was born in Kelso, Scotland, in 1814, was married in 1836, and died in 1840, at the early age of 25 years. In the number of our work for April, 1842, we gave a description of a scene which occurred on her marriage day, and "a lovelier scene, or one more worthy the artist's pencil," never was described.

To our readers we would say, such has been the effect of the perusal of this work upon our mind, that we should consider it cheaply earned, were we obliged to work at midnight to purchase it.

THE GOLDEN VASE; a Gift for the Young. By Hannah F. Gould. Boston: Benjamin B. Mussey. 1843.*

A Golden Vase, "filled with fresh flowers, fragrant, bright, and fair;" or, in other words, a volume of 224 pages, containing a choice collection of stories, in prose and verse, from the elegant pen of Miss H. F. Gould. It is prepared, the author says, for the express perusal of juvenile readers; who, we are sure, will be delighted with its beautiful dress, and its entertaining and instructive conversation.

LIFE OF WASHINGTON.-Tappan & Dennet, of this city, have published Nos. 5 and 6 of this interesting work. They embrace the events transpiring from June, 1776, to December, 1777. No. 5 is embellished with a view of Washington's headquarters at Cambridge, and No. 6 with a map of Boston and its environs in 1775 and 1776.

THE

YOUNG LADY'S FRIEND.

REMINISCENCES.

BY A SISTER.

Thoughts suggested on receiving a present of flowers gathered from the grave of a brother.

"A flower is not a flower alone;

A thousand sanctities invest it:
And as they form a radiant zone,
Around its simple beauty thrown,
Their magic tints become its own,
As if their spirit had possessed it."

Flowers! how many have I gathered or received from kind friends, which have withered and gone as if I loved them not! But these flowers, though their bright colors have faded and their fragrance departed, I shall ever cherish as sacred things. They were planted by my mother, and they shed their perfume around the grave of my brother.

As I gaze upon them I forget the present and am wafted back to that sunny land where my childhood's years were passed.

Ah, well do I remember my early home, for all was bright around it, for beside the beauties which nature showers so plentifully on that happy soil, the hand of taste had rendered it more lovely. Around the pillars of the portico were twined the multiflora, with its clusters of tiny though perfect roses. Over the windows clambered the honeysuckle, the jessamine, and the woodbine, uniting their fragrance with that of the pale and delicate passion-flower. And all around our dwelling sprung in profusion the flowers of that delightful clime.

There was one favorite spot where I often resorted.

In front of the house stocd two noble oaks, remnants of the forest; beneath their shade I passed many a happy hour, and my little brother was often the companion of my amusements. I fancy I hear his merry laugh as we sported on the green turf and gathered the flowers and acorns around to adorn our "playhouse "under the trees. But there must be an end to

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all things and there certainly was to our play hours, particularly those of the morning. In our village was a "Hill of Knowledge and Temple of Science," and no matter how much occupied in our pleasures, the sound of its bell quickly terminated them, and brought, in exchange, visions of long rows of benches, spelling-books and schoolmaster's frowns.

One bright summer morning we had been amusing ourselves as usual, when our sports were disturbed by the loud tones of the Academy bell. Henry wept and clung to me as if to detain me, but the call of that bell was too imperious to be unheeded. I gathered up our playthings and led him up to my mother's room; here I spread them out to amuse him, and in a few minutes he was laughing in glee. While his attention was thus directed I stole from the room and equipped myself for school. Sorrowfully I was wending my way toward the gate, when I heard his voice in pleading accents calling me back. He had missed me from his side, and in a moment had appeared at the window below. The tears were streaming down his cheeks as he stretched forth his little arms beseechingly toward me; I turned and endeavored to comfort him with the assurance that I should soon return, and we would again play together.

But ah! I little thought of the change, which before my return was to come over him; and little did I feel that that morn was the last in which we should sport together beneath those spreading oaks!

That afternoon, when I returned home, I was told that Henry was very sick, but could scarce believe it. I hastened to him, and as I sat down by his cradle, I spoke to him, but instead of the glad response which I was accustomed to meet, he moaned so sad and low that the tears started to my eyes. I sat by him long, and watched him as he tossed his arms wildly about his head.

The next morning, when I entered the room, he was on the bed-a thick film covered his beautiful eyes, and he moved them not, but lay there still and insensible. I climbed up on a chair beside him; many friends were watching round the bed, and stillness reigned throughout the room. I gazed on him for many hours, until overcome. I laid my head on the bed, and fell asleep. I was roused by persons walking about the room, and I was told Henry was dead! I felt of him; he was cold and stiff. I could not speak; I felt dis

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posed to weep, but could not. They told me his body was to be laid in the cold ground, and I would never see him more, unless I went to heaven when I died. I went away by myself, and when I thought he had gone forever from this world, I wept. That night, as I sorrowfully laid my head upon my pillow, I tried to pray, that I might meet my brother when I died. I fell asleep, and dreamed of dying and going to heaven; I thought there was a long flight of stairs to ascend, and when I reached the top my brother met me. As I looked, I discovered that he had beautiful wings, such as I had seen in pictures representing angels. I saw many people there who appeared to be singing, and their sweet music awoke me.

It was a beautiful Sabbath morning; the flowers and grass sparkled in the sunlight, and spread their fragrance around, while the air was filled with the melody of birds; but my heart was sad, and I could not bear to see so much joy. I stole into the parlor, where lay the remains of my brother; I leaned over the coffin, and as I kissed his cold brow, I wept again.

That day he was laid in the grave, from which these flowers were gathered, and as I saw the damp earth thrown over the coffin, I thought my heart would break. I remember the sense of loneliness and sadness I felt during that day. Every thing connected with the death of my brother was so impressed upon my memory, that I can never forget it, though I cannot call to mind my thoughts or feelings afterward. Indeed, it was but a little while after, that several cousins came to make me a visit, and we played together in our favorite spot, and with the gaiety and elasticity of childhood, I forgot my sorrow.

A few months passed away, and I bade farewell to my southern home. The morning we left my native village we rode through the churchyard and took a last look at Henry's grave. It was a little mound, covered with grass, and around grew flowers that my mother had planted.

Ten happy years have since rolled away, and no sorrow has again clouded my brow. Happiness, pure and unalloyed as mortals ever enjoy, has thus far been my lot.

Though never since called upon to stand by the bed of the dying, or to part with a friend, I know that such things must come; but the thought brings not gloom with it; I know that it must be so, but there will still be duties to fulfil, and many sources of comfort and pleasure left me. When friends

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depart I will look with the brightness of hope through the few days which are our portion here, to that home of which this beautiful, lovely, and happy world can give but a faint idea. And, Ó, how blissful the thought that there

“No fears of parting come,
But never ending ages still
Shall find us all at home.

Advocate of Moral Reform.

[Written for the Young Lady's Friend.]
GOD IS RIGHT.

BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.

And we took all his cities at that time, and utterly destroyed the men and the women, and the little ones in every city; we left none to remain.-DEUT. II. 34.

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