uDeath rides on every pasiug breeze,He lurks in every flower,Each season has its own disease,Its perils every .hour.”Departed this life on Tuesday last, of a protracted fever, Mrs. Laura M’Gookin, consort .if Mr. Wru. M’Gookin of this place, leaving to thecarc of the disconsolate father, on infant daughter.The subject of this notice, as a sister and a daughter, was all the relation required—as a wife, affectionate and kind, and as a triend, ardent and sincere. She possessed fine natural endowments, and by assiduous application obtained a refined education. The benevolent affections of her heart wore exceeded by none. In her death, the poor have lost a friend, as the grateful hearts of some of our most humble citizens will bear witness. To commemorate the virtues of tlie dead is a duty we owe not only to them, but to the living—and this we can only do by recording the amiable qualities of those who have descended to the tomb, not only as an cxumple to those who survive, but as a gratification to the friends and relatives of departed worth. If the friends of the deceased mourn, it is not without hope; for they are only separated for a time by the relentless hand of death, to be united again in those regions of unalloyed felicity, the animating hope of this life and the glorious promise of the next.“Frail 33 that quiver on the. spray*;..Like them man flourishes, like them decays;”