he daily Philadelphia LEDGER must frequently
be touched by these plaintive tributes to extinguished worth. In
Philadelphia, the departure of a child is a circumstance which is not
more surely followed by a burial than by the accustomed solacing poesy
in the PUBLIC LEDGER. In that city death loses half its terror because
the knowledge of its presence comes thus disguised in the sweet drapery
of verse. For instance, in a late LEDGER I find the following (I change
the surname):

DIED

Hawks.--On the 17th inst., Clara, the daughter of Ephraim and Laura
Hawks, aged 21 months and 2 days.

That merry shout no more I hear,
No laughing child I see,
No little arms are around my neck,
No feet upon my knee;

No kisses drop upon my cheek,
These lips are sealed to me.
Dear Lord, how could I give Clara up
To any but to Thee?

A child thus mourned could not die wholly discontented. From the LEDGER
of the same date I make the following extract, merely changing the
surname, as before:

Becket.--On Sunday morning, 19th inst., John P., infant son of George
and Julia Becket, aged 1 year, 6 months, and 15 days.

That merry shout no more I hear,
No laughing child I see,
No little arms are round my neck,
No feet upon my knee;

No kisses drop upon my cheek;
These lips are sealed to me.
Dear Lord, how could I give Johnnie up
To any but to Thee?

The similarity of the emotions as produced in the mourners in these two
instances is remarkably evidenced by the singular similarity of thought
which they experienced, and the surprising coincidence of language used
by them to give it expression.

In the same journal, of the same date, I find the following (surname
suppressed, as before):

Wagner.--On the 10th inst., Ferguson G., the son of William L. and
Martha Theresa Wagner, aged 4 weeks and 1 day.

That merry shout no more I hear,
No laughing child I see,
No little arms are round my neck,
No feet upon my knee;

No kisses drop upon my cheek,
These lips are sealed to me.
Dear Lord, how could I give Ferguson up
To any but to Thee?

It is strange what power the reiteration of an essentially poetical
thought has upon one's feelings. When we take up the LEDGER and read the
poetry about little Clara, we feel an unaccountable depression of the
spirits. When we drift further down the column and