Printed cover: Writing Book. Good penmanship is the neatest accomplishment of the scholar. - Chesterfield. [Engraving with caption "The Indian and the British Officer"]. The property of [handwritten: S. Martin] Dansville, N.Y., Manufactured for J. Faulkner by A. Stevens. 1837.
Thoughts on Absent Friends
When I revert back to scenes that are past and gone and think how fast time has flown away and how many changes it has wrought among a circle of happy youth, whose harts was light as the summers breeze who nere thought that sorrow or sadness would ever blight their happy hearts. Then they sported in all their youthful innocence beneath a parents smile, then they enjoyed a brother's society and a sister's love but ah what a change has happened since those blissful moments. Some have been called to visit the death bed of a beloved parent have heard their parting groan and have seen their last remains borne along to their narrow tomb from whense no traveler returns, while others have taken a parting hand and farewell look of a beloved friend who has gone to a distant land to fight for the wrights of others to twine a reath of immortal honor to deck his brow when his mortal frame will lie low in the silent tomb.
Sobrina, Martin
On Virtue
Is their any thing that adornes the female character more than virtue is not this the brightest ornament that can be possest yes more precious than all the wealth of India or the mines of Golconda wit or genius is not to be compared to that gem is riches more valuable can honor be compared to Virtue is beauty any thing without it, neither has the Rose or Lilly any beauty without its varied hues Virtue adornes all its inherent qualities this one particular quality is more desireable than all others, riches takes wings like the morning and wanishes away, Beauty is like the withered leaf of Autumn it dies and are seen no more. Honor is but a name, Rich men are esteemed because they are rich and can ride in their guilded coaches and merely a show perhaps virtue has not found a lodgment in their hearts poor men as frequently neglected because they are poor but is not Virtue oftener found in cottages than in Palaces. Virtue will escist when time will be no more, it is a gem that the devastating hand of time cannot crush.
Sobrina, Martin
On the death of a Young Lady
How uncertain is life andhow certain is death when we walk into the graveyard
and take a view of the numbers that sleep in the silent tomb, some have
been called away in the Bloom of Youth whilst others have been spared
till their backs were silvered are with age as we gase on their mofs {?}
covered tombs it calls to mind many pleasing yet sad recollections of
the past. Whilst meditating on the subject my mind reverts to a young
lady that I became acquainted with at the east about five ears since as
I was spending a short time with a friend. She was a young lady of eccellent
quallifycations, her mind was stored with youseful knowledge, she had
spent the most of her days in acquiring a rich vericty {?} of ideas, that
would lay the foundation for a higher station in life. I have seen her
eyes sparkle and her countenance glow with intellectual brightness while
reflecting on the past and conversing of the future. At the close of many
a bright evening in summer we have sat to geather and watched the declining
Sun as it faded in the western horizon, then the pleasing anticipations
of the future would flash across her mind in quick succession. The anticipated
a long life and a great deal of pleasure in being usefull to her sel and
to others, but to soon were her expectations blighted and her bright dreams
of happiness faded. The sun that shone upon her fair form shone bright
for a short time it soon sunk in the dark shades of death. The was like
a flower that bloomed, in the morning and was hewn down in the evening.
The last time I saw her she was on a journey to the west for her health,
her wasted form and the hectick flush upon her cheek, to plainly told
that she was not long for this world. Soon after she returned home her
parents was called to take a farewell look of their beloved daughter.
The breathed her last sighs in the arms of a doting morther, and while
they bore her along to the narrow tomb they thought of their beloved their
departed daughter their hearts sweld with anguish which cannot be described,
and long will her memory be cherished with fond rememberence by all who
new her, but nothing now remaines but the marble slab that simply marks
the plase wher she lies.
Sobrina, Martin
My Mother
My Mother, when I saw thee laid
Withing thy cold thy silent bed
Thy narrow bed so dark so low
I sunk beneath the afflicting blow
Yet ever to my lips there came
Thy hallowed vemerated name
The dearest name these lips have spoken
Oh Death, how strong the tie thou's broken
How soon thy sky was overcast
How sorrows clouded oer thy life
And then when overcome at last
Sinking beneath the unequal strige
With all of heaven in that last look
Thou gavest to me this Holy Book
This Bible, once to thee so dear
To guide me through life's journey drear
Though on thy lips, death's seal is set
Thy counsels I can nerre forget
And though that face no more I see
Still this my constant prayr shal be
Dear Mother that I might inherit
Some portion of thy sainted merit
To him who will apply them
Best as the immortal God is he
The youth who fondly sits by thee
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speaks and sweetly smiles,
Twas this depriv'd my soul of rest
And rais'd such tumults in my breast
For while I gaz'd in transport tost
My breath was gone my voice was lost,
My bosom glow'd the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung
My ears with hallow murmurs sung,
In dewey damps my limbs were chill'd
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd
My feeble pulse forgot to play
I fainted sunk and died away,
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