Oh! deeply have I trusted, while I listened to thy vow,

And dreamed not that deceit _could_ rest upon so fair a brow;

But well unto my heart the bitter lesson has been taught

That oft love’s words, when sweetest, with deceitfulness are fraught—

And though the slighted heart may hide its bitterness of wo,

There is yet a fount of sorrow, the world may never know.

Then ask me not thy love and _faithlessness_ so coldly to forget,

Or that our early destinies have once so sadly met.

Can the sea blot out the burning stars reflected on its breast,

Or the caged bird forget the haunts where first it built its nest?

The wildest storm that rocks the one, gives place to stars again,

And though the captive bird sings on, ’tis a lovèd green-wood strain!

The ocean-shell forgets not its low, sweet plaintive moan,

Nor the human harp the tones that once were all its own;

But quivering on its strings, there ever will be found

An echo-tone of memory—an unforgotten sound—

And though the chords be broken—its glad music at an end,

With its murmured melody, a strain of other years will blend!

* * * * *

FOR AND AGAINST.

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE

WALTER HERRIES, ESQ.

I don’t think I ever really loved but once; fancies I have had, and fond

ones, too; but now when the cold, gray twilight of age is dimming the

visions of the past, memory still recalls, with wonderful power, one

bright face from the fair picture gallery of my early loves—the face of

Edla Fane, the schoolmaster’s daughter. Beautiful she was not, and yet I

loved her, as I learned too late. She seemed to bind me by some spell of

witchery that I could not withstand, and yet against which I rebelled,

because it appealed not to my outer senses. I understand it now; she

bound me by the might of a lofty, spiritual love; and I blindly cast

aside that gem of countless price to grasp the dross of earth.

High-toned, and pure-minded, tender, and confiding as a child, yet with

a sweet womanly pride, and withal a dash of quiet humor, Edla Fane kept

me vacillating near her for a many months. At one time feeling as though

I could fall at her feet and worship her, at another fearing I had

expressed too much, and withdrawing in cold reserve.

One evening a cold mood came over me; I feared I had committed myself in

my ardent protestations to Edla, and now spoke with the calmness of

friendship or platonic affection. She listened with a slight curve of

her expressive lip, and assented to my proposal of affectionate

friendship so readily, that my self-love was aroused, and with

characteristic variableness my feelings gained immediate force again.

But Edla remained unmoved. The next day I received the following lines

in a blank envelope.

You say that you love me, yet are not a lover;

As you know not yourself what it is you intend;

And right sorry are you, I have chanced to discover,

That you’re _less_ than a _lover_, and _more_ than a _friend_!

For you know you’re a ranger,

And think there is danger,

That when you are weary, and wish to depart,

_I_, believing you true,

May have learned to love you,

And you’ll leave me all lonely, without any heart!

You have cautioned me well, and have done but your duty;

The proverb says truly, “Forearmed, when forewarned,”

And though I can boast not of wealth or of beauty,

I yield not one feeling, I think would be scorned.

When a lover I find

Who _knows his own mind_!

I will give up my heart in return for his vow;

I must have _all_ or _none_,

Must be wooed to be won—

And now I’ll advise _you_, if you will allow.

You at once must restrain all expression of feeling,

Not only of words, but of glances and sighs,

Lest by some odd mischance the strange secret revealing,

Your friendship should prove to be—“love in disguise!”

Remember, take care,

I bid you beware,

For Cupid’s a sly, little mischievous elf,

When you think your heart free

He may bind it to me,

And make you prove constant in spite of yourself.

Then, when I have plighted my vows to another,

You will sue for one glimpse of old feeling in vain;

For when once the bright flame of affection you smother,

You never can kindle its brilliance again;

I’ll turn proudly away,

And will calmly say nay,

(While I look on you coldly, not seeming to see,)

I esteem, and admire,

_That_ is all you desire—

Think well of me always, but never love me!

Provoking! thus to have my own words turned against me, at the close of

these unexpected verses. I saw Edla frequently after this; but my

evanescent vows, were never after tolerated even for a moment, and thus,

when too late, her prophecy was fulfilled—I loved her. But Edla Fane is

now a happy wife and mother, and I—a Bachelor.

* * * * *

MY STUDY.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day

Is crept into the bosom of the night.

SHAKSPEARE.

I love the circuit of thy narrow bounds

While my pale lamp gives light,

And, unattended by tumultuous sounds,

Presides the holy Night.

A quiet nook for revery thou art

In the dim hour of shade,

When that wild, wondrous instrument, the heart,

Is lulled, and tranquil made.

My books—old friends that know not frigid change—

When come the evil days,

Unfold their lettered treasures, rich and strange,

To my enamored gaze.

While Folly wastes in lust and midnight wine,

Manhood and moral health,

True wisdom seeketh jewels in the mine

Of intellectual wealth.

Haunt, sacred to retirement and thought!

At night’s dark noon alone,

Within thy hallowed precincts I have caught

Gleams of that world unknown,

Where the soul harbors when this life is o’er,

And closed our war with Time,

And the hushed belfry of the heart no more

Rings with a numbered chime.

* * * * *

[Illustration]

THE BIRTH-PLACE OF BENJAMIN WEST.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

We present our readers with an engraving of the birth-place of the

celebrated American painter, Benjamin West, from an original drawing

made by Mr. Croome, in the year 1845. The house is situated in the

township of Springfield, Pennsylvania, about four miles north of

Chester, on a considerable farm belonging to Mr. Peter Stewart. It will

be perceived that the house is in rather a dilapidated condition, one of

the posts of the portico being deficient. The house is substantially

built of brick, and, at the time of its erection, must have been

considered rather an elegant country residence; but its antiquity and

state of decay will probably prevent any future attempt to put it in

repair. The spot, however, will always be interesting to Americans, from

its having been the scene of West’s childhood, to which are referred

those delightful and well known anecdotes, of his early life, which

display the dawnings of that brilliant genius which was destined to

astonish the world by its achievements in the graphic art.

* * * * *

DREAMS OF HEAVEN.

BY M. E. THROPP.

IRREGULAR LINES.

From orient climes to the lands that glow

In the last red light of even,

Indian, Paynim, Moslem, Jew—

All have their dreams of Heaven.

The Moslem dreams of a green, fair clime,

Lit up by the sun’s broad beams,

Where flowers gaze down at their own bright forms

In still transparent streams;

Where soft winds sigh, and gay birds sing,

In tones so sweetly clear;

Where palm groves rustle cool and still,

And bright-eyed Houries cheer;

Where the banquet waits, with its viands crowned,

And the wine-cup’s rosy gleam,

While soft luxuriant bowers around,

Invite to recline and dream:

Such is the vision of future bliss

To the Prophet-followers given—

The “true-believer’s” goal of hope,

The Moslem’s dream of Heaven,

The Indian dreams of a sunset land,

Where the great Manitto reigns;

Where deer and stately bison roam

O’er broad, uncultured plains.

A land whose giant lakes and streams,

With gleaming fish abound;

Where forests wave, and mountains tower—

A boundless hunting-ground.

’Tis his dream, as he calmly looks abroad

On the sunset glow, at even—

A hunting-ground, where that sun sinks down,

Is the Indian’s dream of Heaven.

The Jew of his New Jerusalem dreams,

With its streets of shining gold,

And temples, that rival the regal fane

On Moriah’s brow of old.

Still dreams, that Judah’s harps shall sound,

And Judah’s pennons stream,

Where now muezzin’s calls are heard,

And Moslem crescents gleam.

Zion rebuilt, and the land restored,

To his forefathers given,

Is the Hebrew exile’s guerdon high,

His earnest here of Heaven.

The Norseman chief, in the olden times,

Sprang up, with Valkyriur calls

Ringing shrill and clear in his dreaming ear—

“Up! come to ‘Valhalla’s Halls!’”

Would ye know how the chieftain sought those halls?

—Away to the battle-plain—

The warrior sleeps on the ghastly heaps,

His own red sword has slain!

Visions of blood, in that dying hour,

To his stormy soul were given—

Feasts, and victorious battle-fields,

Were the Norseman’s dreams of Heaven.

The Greek had high, ambitious dreams,

Of Elysium’s fabled clime;

The Druid too—ah, many and strange,

Were the dreams of olden time.

How will those dreams accord with thee,

When time exists no more,

Unseen, unknown, unpictured realm

Beyond the silent shore?

Now, shines the gospel sun, the mists

Of Error roll away;

And earth, from pole to central zone,

Rejoices ’neath its sway.

Like some tired wanderer of the deep,

The Christian struggles on;

While day and night, in calm or storm,

How yearns his heart for home!

Dreams he of sensual joys? the chase?

Some ruined city, lone?

Of feasts and battle-fields? Not so—

His is a spirit-home.

To Him, who formed yon glorious sky,

This green enameled sod,

The Christian trusts his future home—

His architect—is God.

* * * * *

[Illustration: COL. WASHINGTON AT THE BATTLE OF COWPENS.

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine by S. H. Gimber]

* * * * *

THE YOUNG DRAGOON.

A STORY OF THE COWPENS.

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

CHAPTER I.

There is a thing—there is a thing,

I fain would have from thee;

I fain would have that gay, gold ring.

THE SPECTRE LADY.

The period of our revolutionary history immediately succeeding the

defeat at Camden, is still remembered in the Carolinas with horror. The

British, elated with their success, and regarding the South as now their

own, proceeded in the work of confiscation and massacre with pitiless

severity. In that terrible crisis many a family was deprived of its head

either by exile or by execution. Yet larger numbers were shorn of their

property and reduced to comparative indigence. In a word, terror reigned

paramount.

But the common events of life still went on. The transactions of

business, the struggle for wealth, the toils of the husbandman, births,

deaths, marriages, cares, hopes, fears—all followed each other down the

deep current of existence, almost wholly unaffected by the storm of war

which agitated the surface. It is an error to suppose that great

convulsions disturb the whole order of society. Men will still hate,

though the entire nation be turned into a camp; will still strive for

the dross of earth; will still, if young and generous, risk their

heart’s happiness in love.

It was toward the close of a winter evening that a youth of noble mien

and handsome face stood at the foot of one of those long avenues of

trees, which, in South Carolina, lead up from the road to the mansions

of the wealthier proprietors. For nearly half an hour he had been there,

as if awaiting the approach of some one from the house: now looking

anxiously up the long avenue, now restlessly walking to and fro. During

that interval but one person had passed along the highway, and the

notice of this one the youth had skillfully avoided by concealing

himself behind some dwarf trees within the plantation-fence. This act,

as well as his whole demeanor, proved that he was awaiting some secret

interview.

At last, just when the dusk began to deepen into night, the flutter of a

white dress was seen coming down the avenue. A minute more, and a

beautiful girl of eighteen summers appeared on the scene.

“Albert,” said the new comer, as the youth, seizing her hand,

passionately kissed it, “I have not a second to stay. It was with

difficulty I could leave the house unseen, and my absence has doubtless

been noticed before this; what we have to say, therefore, must be said

at once; why have you sought this interview?”

“I have sought it, Ellen,” he replied, still holding her hand, “because,

despairing of gaining your consent, I have volunteered in Capt.

Washington’s cavalry corps, and to-morrow set forth. Perhaps you will

never see me more. I could not leave the neighborhood without seeing you

once more, and bidding you an eternal farewell; and, as your father’s

orders had banished me from the house, there was no method of giving you

my adieux except by soliciting an interview.”

The tears had started to the eyes of his listener, but she turned away

her head to conceal them; and for some time neither spoke.

“Ellen, dear Ellen,” said the young soldier, earnestly, “will you not

now, in this solemn moment, say you love me? I once hoped you did, but

since your father has forbidden me the house, you have been less kind;

and I fear that I have lost your heart—that you, too, have ceased to

care for me, now that I am beggared—”

His hearer suddenly turned her face full upon him, with a look of

tearful reproach that cut short his words.

“Bless you, Ellen, for that look,” he said. “Though my father’s estate

is confiscated, and he and I both indigent, it is not on that account

that you have seemed so cold to me lately. Say then, dearest, only say

that I have been mistaken in thinking you at all altered.”

Another look, equally eloquent, answered him; but still his hearer did

not speak.

“Oh! Ellen,” he continued, “when I am far away fighting my country’s

battles, what bliss it would be to know that you sometimes think of me;

and that if I should fall, you would shed a tear for me.”

His listener, at these words, wept freely, and when her agitation had

somewhat passed, spoke.

“Albert,” she said, “you have conquered. Know then that I do love you.”

At these words the impetuous young man clasped her in his arms, but she

disengaged herself, saying, “But, while my father opposes your suit, I

can never be yours. The consciousness of his disapproval has made me

affect a coldness to you which my heart belied, in the hope that you

would think of some one more worthy of you—but—but,” she hesitated,

then quickly added, “in a word, if it will comfort you, when away, to

know that I think of you, and pray for you, go forth happy—the misery

is for us who stay behind, and who are hourly anxious for the fate of

the absent.”

The tears fell fast as she spoke, and, concluding, she suffered her head

to be drawn to her lover’s shoulder, while a deep and holy silence

succeeded, as these two young and already unhappy beings held each other

in a first embrace.

It was only for a moment, however, that Ellen yielded to weakness.

Raising her head and brushing the tears from her eyes, she said, while

crimson blushes overspread her face,

“And now farewell—perhaps all this is wrong—but I could not see you

leave me in anger.”

“God bless you for those kind words,” said Albert. “But, Ellen, before

you go, one more request. That miniature that hangs around your neck—is

it too much to ask for it?”

She hesitated: then, as steps were heard in the road, suddenly gave it

to him. He drew a heavy signet-ring from his finger, and said, tendering

it in exchange,

“Take this, and let us be true to each other—so help us God!”

And with this parting adjuration, he sprang over the fence to conceal

himself behind the brushwood, while Ellen, hastening up the avenue, was

soon lost to sight in the obscurity of the hour.

The wind sighed mournfully through the pine woods as this betrothal was

consummated, and the dark, starless sky overhead looked down with its

weird and melancholy face.

CHAPTER II.

Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse.

GRAY.

It is well known that, after the defeat of Gates, Congress hastened to

supersede that general, and appoint Greene to succeed him. At the period

of the incidents narrated in the last chapter, the new

commander-in-chief had arrived in the South, and was organizing his

forces.

His very first proceeding showed the resources of an intellect, which,

in military affairs, was second only to that of the “father of his

country.” Aware that the initiatory step toward redeeming the South was

to arouse the confidence of its people, he determined to divide his

force. While, therefore, he moved with one portion down the Pedee, he

despatched Morgan, with the remainder, west of the Catawba, in order to

encourage the inhabitants in that quarter. Morgan’s corps was

accompanied by Capt. Washington’s light dragoons, of which our hero had

already become a conspicuous member.

This division of his army, in the face of an active foe, would have been

a capital error, but for the political advantages it offered, and which

over-balanced the military ones. Cornwallis, then in command of the

royal army, determined to frustrate the success of Greene’s plan, by

cutting off Morgan’s detachment; and accordingly ordered Col. Tarleton,

with his renowned dragoons, accompanied by a competent force of

infantry, to give pursuit.

It was on the 14th of January, 1781, a day ever to be remembered in the

annals of our country, that the heroic Morgan learned the danger in

which he stood. He determined immediately to give battle. For this

purpose he halted at a place called the Cowpens, and having drawn up his

troops, awaited, though not without anxiety, the appearance of the foe.

The attack of Tarleton, as usual, was impetuous, and for awhile the

American militia were driven helplessly before it; but soon they

rallied, under cover of a few continentals belonging to Morgan’s

command, and in turn forced the British to give ground. These brave

soldiers of the line, led by their colonel, now charged with the

bayonet, when the route of the royal infantry became complete.

Washington, with his cavalry, had been waiting impatiently a chance to

participate in the fight; but having been stationed as a partial

reserve, the order for him to engage did not for some time arrive. His

troops shared his enthusiasm. Composed chiefly of young men of family,

and mounted on thorough-bred animals, they presented a formidable

appearance, as they stood, awaiting the order to engage, the horses

champing at the bit, and the riders nervously fingering their swords:

they saw the onset of the British, the flight of the first line, and the

partial panic that extended through the foot soldiers with horror; but

still their leader remained unmoved. Many had never been in battle

before, and such believed the day lost; among these was Albert.

At last the confusion became so great around them that troops so

undisciplined, if less brave, would have taken to ignominious flight;

for the defeated militia were pouring down upon them from all sides,

almost compelling them to break their ranks, or see the fugitives perish

under the hoofs of their horses. But now Washington seemed to rouse from

his inaction. Ordering his men first to allow the flying militia to gain

their rear, he then directed them, his sharp, quick tones showing that

the moment for action had come, to close up and prepare to charge.

As he spoke, he pointed with his sword ahead, and our hero beheld the

renowned regiment of Tarleton coming down upon them at full gallop, and

amid a cloud of dust, driving before a mass of dismayed fugitives. The

keen eye of Washington measured, for an instant, the distance between

them, and then said,

“I want no fire-arms used to-day, my lads. Stick to the cold steel. And

now, for God and your country—charge!”

Away went the troop, like a thunder-bolt suddenly loosed from a cloud,

with every scabbard jingling, every steed snorting with excitement, and

the solid earth shaking under them. In full career they burst upon the

flank of the enemy, who, disordered by his pursuit, could make but a

feeble resistance. Horse and rider went down before the impetuous charge

of the Americans, who for awhile fairly rode down their foes. But

British valor soon proved too weak for the combined patriotism and

courage of Washington’s cavalry; and the royal troops, taming their

bridles, took to ignominious flight.

“On, on,” cried Washington, waving his sword for his men to follow,

“remember the cruelties of these myrmidons. Revenge for our slaughtered

countrymen!”

At the word, his men, thus reminded of the butchery of the Waxhaws and

of the other atrocities perpetrated under the eye of Tarleton, spurred

their horses afresh, and dashed on in pursuit. A complete panic had now

taken possession of the royal cavalry, who hurried on at full gallop,

each man thinking only of himself. Close on their heels followed the

indignant Americans, cutting down mercilessly every red-coat they

overtook, until the road was strewed with the dead. Foremost in this

pursuit rode Washington, a precedence he owed, not only to his superior

steed, but to his eagerness to overtake an officer just ahead, whom he

judged to be Tarleton himself from his effort to rally the fugitives.

The tremendous pace at which Washington rode, at last carried him so far

ahead of his men, that, at a bend in the highway, he found himself

totally alone. At this moment, the British, looking back, perceived his

situation, and immediately turned on him, his principal assailants being

Tarleton and two powerful dragoons.

Knowing, however, that assistance must be close at hand, Washington

resolutely advanced to meet the enemy, determined to seize Tarleton for

his prisoner. But, before he could reach the colonel, the two dragoons

dashed at him, the one on the right, the other on the left. He saw only

the first of them, however, and accordingly turned on him, clove him

down with a single blow of his sabre, then rushed at Tarleton himself.

But, meantime, the other dragoon was advancing, totally disregarded,

upon him, and with upraised blade would have cut him down, had not our

hero, who had pressed close after his leader, at this instant wheeled

round the corner of the wood. At a single glance he took in the whole

scene. Albert saw that before he could come up Washington would be

slain, unless fire-arms were employed. In this emergency he did not

hesitate to disobey the orders of his leader. Jerking a pistol from his

holster, he aimed full at the dragoon, just as the sabre of the latter

was sweeping down on Washington’s head. The man tumbled headlong from

his saddle, his sword burying itself, in the dust.

“Ha! who is that?” said Washington, sternly, so astonished to find his

orders disobeyed, that he turned; a movement which Tarleton took

advantage of to make good his escape. “You, Albert!—you!”

“There was no other way,” answered our hero, and he pointed to the dead

dragoon, “to save your life. His sabre was within six inches of you when

I fired.”

“It could not be helped, then, I suppose,” answered Washington, who now

comprehended the event, and saw that he owed his life to the quickness

of thought of his young friend; “but stay, you are yourself hurt.”

As he spoke, he saw blood issuing from the sleeve of Albert, and

immediately afterward the young soldier reeled and fell senseless to the

ground.

Two pistol shots had been discharged from the enemy, Washington now

recollected, immediately after Albert had fired. On examination, one

ball was found in the arm of our hero. The other had perforated the

coat, immediately over the heart.

“He is dead,” cried the leader, “that second shot has touched a vital

part.”

He tore away the garments as he spoke, but uttered a cry of joy when he

exposed the chest, for there, right over the heart, lay a miniature,

which had stopped the ball.

Washington looked at the picture, and muttered, “Ha! I have heard of

this—and now I will see if I cannot serve my young friend a good turn.”

CHAPTER III.

Marry never for houses, nor marry for lands,

Nor marry for nothing but only love.

FAMILY QUARRELS.

When our hero, after a long interval of unconsciousness, opened his

eyes, he found himself, to his surprise, in a large and elegantly

furnished apartment, entirely strange to him. He pulled aside the

curtains of his bed with his uninjured arm, and looked out. An aged

female servant sat watching him.

“What massa want?” she said.

“How did I get here?” he asked.

“Captain Washington heself left you here, massa, after de great battle.

De surgeon staid to dress your arm, and den follow arter de troops, who

had lick de red-coats, dey say, all to pieces.”

“Yes! I know—then the army has pursued its march to the Catawba.”

“It hab, massa; and you be to stay here till you well.”

“But where am I?”

The old negro woman smiled till she showed all her teeth.

“You no know, massa?”

“I do not.”

“You forgit me, Massa Albert—me, Missus Ellen’s maman?”

“Good God!” cried our hero, scarcely believing his senses, and

scrutinizing her features, “can it be? You are indeed she. And this is

Mr. Thorndike’s house.”

He had started up in bed, and was now confronted by the figure of the

owner of the mansion himself, who entered at an opposite door; but who,

instead of wearing the angry air which Albert had last seen upon him,

smiled kindly upon him.

“I was passing along the corridor,” he said, seating himself on the

bedside familiarly, and taking the hand of his wounded guest, “and

hearing your voice, learned for the first time that you were awake.

Accordingly I made bold to enter, in order to assure you of a welcome.

When we last parted, Mr. Scott,” he said, noticing our hero’s look of

astonishment, “it was with ill-feeling on both sides. Let all that be

forgotten. Whatever I may have said then I now recall. In saving the

life of Capt. Washington, who is my dearest friend, you have laid me

under infinite obligations, and at his request I have consented to

overlook the past, and to give you my daughter. I only make a single

stipulation, which is that you will not ask her hand until this war is

over, which,” he added, lowering his voice, “can not be long, now that

things have begun to go so auspiciously.”

Our hero well understood the character of Mr. Thorndike, who was noted

for his prudent adherence to whichever side was uppermost, and he

attributed this sudden change not only to Capt. Washington’s

intercessions, but also in part to the prospect there now was of the

triumph of the colonial cause, in which case the confiscated estates of

the elder Mr. Scott would be restored. He kept this to himself, however,

and expressed his thanks for Mr. Thorndike’s hospitality.

“But I shall owe you even more,” he added, “for the happiness with which

your promise has filled me, and I cheerfully accept your terms.

Meantime, let me rise, and pay my respects to the ladies in person—I am

sure I am well enough.”

Our hero, however, was compelled to keep his bed for two entire days, in

consequence of the fever, a period which appeared to him an age.

We shall not attempt to describe his meeting with Ellen. Let us pass

over the first few minutes of the interview.

“I have but one thing to regret,” he said at last, in a low whisper, for

Mr. and Mrs. Thorndike were at the other end of the apartment, “and that

is the loss of your miniature. I had it around my neck when I went into

battle, but have not seen it since.”

Ellen smiled archly, and drew it from her bosom.

“How did it reach your possession?” he said in surprise. And, taking it

in his hand, he added, “What means this dent, so like the mark of a

ball?”

Tears gushed to Ellen’s eyes, as she said—

“Capt. Washington, who gave it to me, said that it lay over your heart,

and that but for it, Tarleton’s pistol-shot would have killed you. Oh!

Albert, I sometimes thought, after I gave it to you, that I had done

wrong, knowing that my parents would not approve of the act; but when I

heard that it had saved your life, I saw in it the hand of Providence.”

“Yes! for it not only preserved me from death, but was the means of

interesting Washington in our favor, and thus bringing about this happy

re-union,” said Albert, after a pause.

We have no more to tell. On recovering from his wound, our hero rejoined

his corps, with which he continued until the expulsion of the British

from the Carolinas.

After that happy event he was married to Ellen, and with her spent a

long life of felicity.

Their descendants still preserve the battered miniature as an heir-loom.

* * * * *

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

[Illustration]

MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT.

This species is widely spread over the United States, Mexico and the

West Indies. Trappers have found it in abundance amid the wild solitudes

of Oregon and the gorges of the Rocky Mountains. The great body of these

birds winter within the tropics, from whence they reach the Southern

States early in spring, and Pennsylvania in April. They begin to build

in May, choosing for this purpose either the thickest parts of the

forest or a low meadow, retired from the intrusion of man. The nest is

constructed of dry leaves and grass, and always concealed by thick

grass, heaps of brush or other undergrowth. Indeed few of our songsters

are more shy or modest than the Yellow-Throat, and he seems to be devoid

of the apparent vanity evinced by most birds of handsome or gaudy

plumage. The lonely banks of a small stream, overgrown with reeds and

bushes, is his favorite haunt; and here, with his sober mate, he whiles

away the long sultry days of our summer’s heat. The eggs are five in

number, either entirely white or of a pale pink tint, varied by minute

specks and lines, mostly toward the greater end. After being hatched,

which occurs in June, the young birds join the parent pair, and all live

as one family, roving along creeks and marshes, and defending each other

from enemies. Sometimes, however, a second brood interrupts this

connection. In August the lively song of the male ceases to be heard,

and the whole party continue their pursuits in silence until warned by a

scarcity of food to depart for the South.

The Maryland Yellow-Throat is nearly five inches long, and more than six

across the spread wings. The upper parts are a light olive; the throat

and breast yellow; the wings and tail brown, mixed with black; the legs

are pale flesh-color, and remarkable for their delicacy. The young

resemble the female at first, but the male of the season, before his

departure in autumn, exhibits the brilliant yellow throat, as well as

some appearance of the gray and black which ornament the sides of the

face in the adult. Small insects form the almost exclusive prey of this

bird, and in capturing them he often displays much art and agility. His

song is a plaintive whistle, varying in power and cadence, and sometimes

associated with partial imitations of other birds. In September, small

flocks depart for the South, only a few stragglers being seen after that

month. A few pass the winter in the Southern States, but as already

stated, the greater portion retire within the Tropics.

[Illustration]

SUMMER YELLOW-BIRD, OR WARBLER.

Few birds are more common, or more widely spread than this well known

species. According to Richardson, it is found as far north as the 68th

degree of latitude, from whence it ranges throughout the entire North

American continent, the West Indies, Bahamas, Colombia, Peru, Guiana,

Brazil and other portions of South America. These latter countries are

their winter residence. In the early part of March they arrive in

Carolina, and two months later in Pennsylvania, New England, etc. Here

they pass the summer, and leave for the South about the beginning of

September, the time of departure varying with the season and latitude.

The Yellow-Bird is a general favorite with the farmer. In summer he may

be seen upon almost every tree, but especially among the willows along

water-courses, where his brilliant plumage forms a fine relief with the

deep glossy green. Being familiar and playful, he often approaches so

near as to be captured. His favorite food is larvæ and small

caterpillars, which he searches for with much industry, enlivening the

hardship of his labor by a cheerful whistle or song. About the time of

building, and even after, the female sings almost as well as the male.

Both these birds display great ingenuity and solicitude in the

construction of their nest, which is usually placed on a small bush

close to the ground. Instances are rare where they build on the ground

or on a high tree. The nest is constructed externally of dried leaves,

fine bark and fern, and within of down, wool, fine grass, and similar

materials. Occasionally they forsake the woods, and build in the hedge

or bushes of the garden, suiting the construction of their small home to

the change of residence. “The labor of forming the nest,” as Nuttall

observes, “seems often wholly to devolve on the female. On the 10th of

May, I observed one of these industrious matrons busily engaged with her

fabric in a low barberry-bush, and by the evening of the second day the

whole was completed to the lining, which was made at length of hair and

willow down, of which she collected and carried mouthfuls so large, that

she often appeared almost like a mass of flying cotton, and far exceeded

in industry her active neighbor, the Baltimore, who was also engaged in

collecting the same materials. Notwithstanding this industry, the

completion of the nest, with this and other small birds, is sometimes

strangely protracted, or not immediately required.”

The eggs of the Yellow-Bird are four or five in number, white, with

small spots of brown. After they are hatched, or even while sitting, the

female often feigns lameness at the approach of a stranger, falling down

near him and uttering pitiful cries, or perhaps fluttering along the

ground. It is frequently annoyed by the intrusions of the Cow Troupial,

which, building no nest of her own, makes use of the Yellow-Bird’s. The

little builder being too weak to remove the incumbrance, generally

builds a partition over it, thus preventing its being hatched. Nests

have been found in which a second story has been raised in a similar

manner.

The Yellow-Bird is five inches long, and seven across the wings.

Greenish yellow above; below, with crown and front golden, and orange

spots on the breast; wings and tail brown, and the bill blue. The female

is without any variation of color on the breast.

[Illustration]

BLACK-THROATED GREEN WARBLER.

The Green Warbler arrives in Pennsylvania about the beginning of May,

and in New England somewhat later. When observed for the first time in

spring, it is generally alone, seated on a fruit-tree, and industriously

searching for the small insects and larvæ which constitute his food. The

species is somewhat rare, rarely more than a single pair, as it is

asserted, being seen together, except in the fall, when scattered

individuals collect to prepare for migration. Except during the period

of incubation, they are not very shy of man, often permitting him to

approach within a few feet. They are supposed to wander in summer as far

north as Canada and Hudson’s Bay, but the larger portion remain in the

Middle and New England States.

Little is known of the precise time of building, since the habits of

this songster are then retired. They appear to prefer low, dry

situations, and build on bushes, not far from the ground. A nest

examined by Nuttall contained four eggs, of a light flesh-colored tint,

variegated with pale, purplish points of various sizes, interspersed

with other large, brown or blackish spots. The outside was formed of

fine strips of the inner bark of juniper, with another tough, fibrous

bark, the whole lined with soft feathers, horse hair, and bent grass.

The Green Warbler is four and a half inches in length, and seven across

the wings. The chin and throat are black, with spots of the same color

on the sides under the wings. The breast and belly are white, the wings

and tail dusky, with some white, and the legs and feet pale brown. A

bird called by Latham and Pennant the Yellow-Fronted Warbler, is

probably but a variation of the same species. The song of the Green

Warbler is a somewhat plaintive note, not unlike that of the Chicadee,

uttered at short intervals, in a slow manner and with some variation.

Owing to its solitary habits, it rarely mingles in the chorus of our

summer groves.

* * * * *

VINCENTE FILICAJA’S SONNET TO ITALY.

“_Dove Italia il tuo braccio._”

Where is thy might, oh Italy! and why

Now dost thou humbly kneel to other powers?

They are thy foes, for both in bygone hours

Subject before thy throne were forced to lie.

And is it thus thy honor is preserved?

And is it thus thy glory is maintained?

Thine old escutcheon thou hast darkly stained,

Widely from ancient valor hast thou swerved.

Well—be it so: yet cast the crown aside,

Put on the shame, the languor and the chains

Of slaves, and sleep while all mankind deride—

Sleep as the hireling harlot sleeps, who stains

Her bridal-bed with guilt, till in thy side

Avenging fate the glittering steel shall hide.

F. R.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Selections from the Writings of James Kennard, Jr. With a

Sketch of His Life and Character. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1

vol. 12mo._

This volume is printed for private circulation, and we should not have

thought of making it the subject of a notice, were it not for the

interest which attaches to the name of the author. Mr. Kennard was

stricken early in life with a disease in his knee—was compelled, at the

age of twenty-two, to have his leg amputated—and from that time to his

death, ten years after, he was afflicted with a series of diseases,

frightfully accumulating one upon another, which at last deprived him of

all power of motion, and sparing not even his eyes. Yet though thus

seemingly cut off from all enjoyments, and doomed to the peevishness as

well as the pain of the sick chamber, he bravely surmounted by force of

will the mental effects of his ailments, and developed in physical agony

and deprivation one of the most beautiful and loveable characters we

have had the fortune to meet in literature or in life. Serene, cheerful,

hopeful, affectionate—uncomplaining in the midst of miseries, any one

of which might well have quelled a strong spirit, and which, combined,

seemed impossible for any spirit to bear—he not only was a genial

companion, ready to talk of every thing but his own pains and

deprivations, but a voluminous writer. The present volume, consisting of

essays, reviews and poems, contributed to the Knickerbocker, the

Christian Examiner, and various newspapers and periodicals, indicates

not merely the degree of excellence to which by self-culture he had

trained his talents for composition, but also the wide range of his

studies, and the wider range of his sympathies. For every holy and

beneficent enterprise started to alleviate the miseries of the

unfortunate, to assist the poor and the ignorant, or to champion the

oppressed, this self-forgetful valetudinary had a word of cheer warm

from his heart. There is also a sunny, almost frolicksome and dancing,

spirit of enjoyment in many of his pieces, which is usually

characteristic only of the highest physical health. The article on our

“National Poets” is especially teeming with the very exuberance of fun.

That on Alison’s History of Europe is one of the most judicious and

brilliant papers on the subject published on either side of the

Atlantic. Indeed the whole book preaches on every page the most

scorching rebukes to indolent and self-indulgent health, and the most

inspiring hope to despairing sickness. The reading of such a book, in

connection with the character of such a man, is enough to create

courage, and cheer under the very “ribs of death.”

* * * * *

_Mardi, and a Voyage Thither. By Herman Melville. New York:

Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo._

Mr. Melville has given us here an acknowledged romance, and those who

doubted the veracity of “Typee” and “Omoo,” may now have an opportunity

of noticing the difference between Mr. Melville recording what he has

observed, and Mr. Melville recording what he has imagined. It appears to

us that the two processes in the author’s mind have little in common,

and the best evidence of the truthfulness of his former books is the

decidedly romantic character of much of the present.

“Mardi” is altogether the most striking work which Mr. Melville has

produced, exhibiting a range of learning, a fluency of fancy, and an

originality of thought and diction, of which “Typee,” with all its

distinctness and luxuriance of description, gave little evidence. At the

same time it has defects indicating that the author has not yet reached

the limits of his capacity, and that we may hope from him works better

even than the present. “Mardi” is of the composite order of mental

architecture, and the various rich materials which constitute it are not

sufficiently harmonized to produce unity of effect. It has chapters of

description, sketches of character, flashes of fanciful exaggeration,

and capital audacities of satire, which are inimitable, but confusion,

rather than fusion, characterizes the book as a whole. Of the two

volumes the first is by far the best, but both contain abundant evidence

of the richness, strength and independence of the author’s mind, and are

full of those magical touches which indicate original genius.

* * * * *

_Nineveh and Its Remains. With an Account of a Visit to the

Chaldean Christians of Kurdistan and the Yezidas, or

Devil-Worshipers; and an Inquiry into the Manners and Arts of

the Ancient Assyrians. By Austen Henry Layard, Esq., D.C.L. New

York: Geo. P. Putnam. 2 vols. 8vo._

Private letters from England confirm the reports in the public journals

of the great sensation which this work has excited in Great Britain. It

divides with Macaulay’s brilliant history the attention of the reading

public. The American publisher, with commendable enterprise, has issued

it in a style of great elegance, and has given all the illustrative

engravings which decorate the English edition. The work, when we

consider the expense of its mechanical execution, is placed at a very

low price.

These volumes belong to a class of books which may be called the geology

of history—the exhibition of a nation’s history and social life through

its monuments. The greatest work of this kind in English is doubtless

Wilkinson’s on the Ancient Egyptians, and the production of Mr. Layard

is next in rank. It introduces us to the Assyrians through a process

which enables us to comprehend their material and mental life—to see

them as they ate, dressed, warred, thought and prayed. Their fine and

useful arts, their costume, their amusements, their military system,

their private life, their religion, are all brought directly before the

eye and mind of the reader, and he is enabled to discern that peculiar

combination of the elements of human nature which constituted the

Assyrian mind and heart, and to reconcile the apparent anomalies in the

national character. The picture is one of engrossing interest, and

cannot fail to enlarge every mind which contemplates it. It is almost

needless to say that the course Mr. Layard has pursued is the only

possible mode by which authentic information can be obtained of an

extinct people, who left no historical records, and who were almost

forgotten before history began. The illustrations given in the work of

the truth of many passages in the Old Testament, are not the least

interesting and remarkable portions of a most interesting and striking

book.

* * * * *

_The Gold Mines of the Gila. A Sequel to Old Hicks the Guide. By

Charles W. Webber. New York: Dewitt & Davenport. 2 vols. 12mo._

This work possesses a double interest; first, as a most stirring and

graphic delineation of life, character and scenery on the borders of

Texas, and second, as indicating an almost unknown region of the

Continent, rich in gold mines and wealth of various kinds, and tempting

both curiosity and cupidity to its exploration. Mr. Webber proposes to

head an expedition of some sixty men, to be called the “Centralia

Exploring Expedition to California, via the valleys of the Pecos, the

Gila, and Colorado of the West,” for the purpose of discovery and

profit; and in the course of this delightful book of adventure, he

spreads before his readers the evidence he possesses of the existence of

the region into which he desires to penetrate. If his expedition succeed

we have little doubt that it will be one of the most interesting and

romantic since the time of Cortez; and the leader himself has qualities

of valor, endurance and chivalric sentiment, sufficient to carry him

through the difficulties of any enterprise, however arduous.

Apart from the information relating to a new gold region, Mr. Webber’s

volumes possess an engrossing interest as records of adventure. The

author has a sureness and vividness of conception, and a power of

expression, which combined make his delineations singularly fresh and

life-like. To read this book is the next best thing to viewing the

objects it describes. It displays a representative genius of a high

order, and if the author would concentrate his energies, he might

produce a novel which would give him a place in the front rank of our

original minds.

* * * * *

_Rural Letters and other Records of Thought at Leisure, written

in the intervals of more hurried Literary Labor. By N. Parker

Willis. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

The publication of this delightful volume was well-timed, appearing as

it did with the new grass and the first flowers; and we doubt not it

will be the companion of many a city tourist during the summer months.

It is, perhaps, the most fascinating of Mr. Willis’s prose works,

evincing more than his usual graceful facility of expression and fluency

of thought, and variegated with the cosiest fancies and most genial wit.

The author shakes hands with nature, and though the gleam of his jeweled

fingers sometimes suggests that he is merely a visiter to her dominions,

his beautiful audacity of manner forces the old lady to tell him some of

her finest secrets—secrets which she has not always confided to her

unconventional adorers. We hardly know whether the book is more

calculated to delight the citizen or the countryman, but certainly there

is a sweet fusion of nature and convention in it which must win the

hearts of both. The volume contains “Letters from Under a Bridge,”

“Open-Air Musings in the City,” “Invalid Rambles in Germany,” “Letters

from Watering Places,” and “A Plain Man’s Love.” It is dedicated to

Imogene, the author’s daughter, in five of the best pages that Mr.

Willis ever wrote. The book is elegantly printed, and cannot but reach

that wide circulation which it so richly merits.

* * * * *

_Philosophy of Religion. By J. Morell, A. M. New York: D.

Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

The subject of this valuable volume is one to task the energies of the

strongest intellect, and Mr. Morell seems to have exerted his to its

utmost capacity in its production. Though it may not be in all cases

sound and practical it evinces a wide knowledge of philosophical

systems, is eminently suggestive, and thoroughly imbued with the spirit

both of philosophy and religion. Mr. Morell is a metaphysician of the

Scotch school, a follower of Reid and Hamilton, and from the latter

especially he has drawn a good deal of his inspiration. Indeed, Sir

William Hamilton’s dissertations and notes annexed to the late edition

of Reid, are destined to have a wide if not a deep influence on

contemporary thought. The present volume indicates how important are his

distinctions of presentative and representative knowledge, for from

Hamilton’s philosophy of perception a good portion of the book is drawn.

Mr. Morell is well adapted to popularize the principles of more

scientific and original thinkers than himself, and we hardly know of two

works better calculated to initiate the reading public into the nature

of the problems which vex metaphysics and metaphysical theology than his

history of Philosophy and his present volume on the Philosophy of

Religion.

* * * * *

_Les Confidences. Confidential Disclosures. By Alphonse de

Lamartine. Translated from the French, by Eugene Plunket._

This curious volume is the commencement of an autobiography, in which

Lamartine confides to the public the thoughts and events of his life.

Like all the other productions of the accomplished author it is written

in a charming style, and with an abundance of captivating sentiment, but

it gives no evidence of that robustness and solidity of nature we are

accustomed to expect in a great man after the Saxon type. The

sentimental dogmatist and egotist is predominant throughout, and with

all its merit it seems to us one of those books which convey

intellectual disease into the public mind, and enfeeble while they

please. It would not, perhaps, be just to test its excellence by its

agreement with English or American codes of taste, or object to some of

its disclosures as puerile and unmanly, because so stigmatized by the

canons of a particular nation, but we think on general principles of

human nature it cannot stand a sharp examination. There is no evidence

of any intrinsic greatness and grandeur of mind or heart in the book,

nothing which justifies the author in making his weaknesses and vices,

his virtues and fine notions, the subject of a particular work, and

cramming the public mind with himself. There is really no addition made

to our knowledge of ethics or metaphysics, to society or psychology, by

the exhibition here made of the interior nature of Alphonse de

Lamartine. He “wears his heart upon his sleeve” to no other purpose than

to gratify a ravenous vanity or to fill an empty purse—two of the

poorest objects a man can have in view in exhibiting himself.

* * * * *

_The American Bee-Keepers Manual. By T. B. Minor. New York: C.

M. Saxton._

Mr. Minor here presents us with a very complete practical treatise on

the history and domestic economy of the honey-bee, embracing a full

illustration of the whole subject, with the most approved method of

managing this insect through every branch of its culture. The work is

the result of many years careful notings of personal observation and

experience, and abounds in agreeable as well as useful matter. It is a

very readable volume, and opens a pleasant leaf of knowledge to the

student of nature.

* * * * *

_The Spirit World, a Poem; and Scenes in the Life of Christ. By

Joseph H. Wythes. Philadelphia, 1849._

This is a very beautifully printed little volume, embracing the author’s

first efforts—and very creditable they are. The design of the poem is,

to unite the discoveries of astronomical science with consistent and

Scriptural ideas of the powers, condition, and probable employment of a

future state. We commend the volume to our readers.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

AN EARLY FLOWER.

Last month direct reference was made by our contributors to the beauties

of May. Poets have felt the inspiration of the season from the first,

and all the beauties and all the odors of the month have seemed

transfused to their verse, rich in metrical excellence, and redolent of

the sweets it embalmed. But we have taken a range among the hills and

valleys, and, unable to express in poetry those sentiments which the

season inspired, we must, though a month later, appeal to humble prose,

and make a record of what we saw and felt, with no hope of suggesting

high thoughts to others, or of awakening that feeling which, in the

gifted and the good, may be aroused by eloquence.

The chill of April winds does not prevent the greenness of herbage which

the fecundating power of April rains provokes. And hidden in among the

relics of last year’s vegetation, and the nascent herbage of young

spring, little flowers had nestled away; little, but beautiful flowers,

decorating the narrow space between the new-born child and the dead

parent. I plucked a few of those modest gems, almost afraid that I

desecrated the altar of Nature, in thus taking its scanty decorations;

but they did their office, since they awakened in me a remembrance of

Him whose hand planted the towering oak that makes the forest majestic,

and whose fingers scattered the seed that produced these minute

ministers of his will, these records of his omnipotence and

omnipresence.

“All things are full of God”—it is the language of the heathen poet, it

is the language of divine inspiration, it is the language of the heart

touched with the truths of Nature, and connecting them with Nature’s

Author. “Hill and dale are of thy dressing.” And as I stood in the dale,

amid the delicate outpouring of the beauties there, and looked upward to

the hills studded with the time-marked trees, I said to myself, “Here is

that volume of truth that speaks of the unknown, yet not unreverenced,

God, whose will and providence are revealed in the volume of

inspiration.”

I had, almost insensibly, got within the enclosure of a burying-ground,

which is situated near the Frankford Road, only a few miles from the

city, and was transferring my thoughts from the beautiful objects of

Nature to the specimens of human ingenuity that transmit the date of

birth and death, with the name of the mortal, from one generation to the

other. No one, I believe, passes through a burying-ground without

pausing to read the little story, and thinking over the events which

marked the life of the deceased. It is good when standing thus to think

that he who is below was of like passions with ourselves—that he had

all the social and domestic feelings which we possess, and was

influenced by the events of life as we are. What a world do we animate

when we thus think of each individual—thus place him in connection with

social, domestic, political life. How we multiply interests, augment

joys, and increase the pangs to which human existence is liable.

At the turning of one of the little avenues that “lead to the tomb,”

making an easy path to the grave, I saw that a new head-stone had been

erected, and it bore the name of one whom I had known in her childhood.

She was beautiful—but more lovely in mind than person. She married

early, and gave birth to an infant, and died—a short biography. She was

not forgotten. The memorials testified to the yet existing memory of her

husband—and a nurse leading a little child toward the mound signified

that her virtues were to be kept in remembrance by the child she had

borne.

A little flower had sprung up on the very top of the grave. It had

probably been planted in the autumn, but it was now beautiful in its

solitude. Its colors were as rich as if the roots had struck down and

drawn nutriment from the heart that mouldered below, and its odors were

as rich as if they were imparted by the spirit that had gone upward. I

know not when I have seen thus placed a more lovely flower; perhaps it

owed a part of this estimate to its loneliness, a part to its connection

with the beauty and purity of her over whom it expanded.

The little child on leaning over the grave fell prostrate, and

manifested no disposition to rise. After a few moments delay, I gently

raised her in my arms, and placed her on her feet. She seemed not

pleased at first with my interference.

“It is my mamma’s grave,” said she, with much emphasis, “and she is down

there now.”

“But lying on that moist ground might expose you to take cold.”

“Yet I love to throw myself there,” she said. “I must do it, for I loved

her much.”

I tried to persuade her to desist, but she stepped toward the grave with

a view of repeating her fall. Her attendant stooped down, and said in a

low voice,

“But your dear mother would not be pleased to see you do wrong, even if

it was in token of your love for her.”

“Then I will not do it.”

If there had been no good seed planted in the child’s heart, at least

the soil had been beautifully prepared for the planting—what could have

been better done than this reverence for the name and virtues of a

mother, and this obedience to her supposed will? I had, I thought,

lighted on another truly lovely spring flower.

“Do you come often to visit your mother’s grave?” I asked of the little

one. The child looked up as if the inquiry should be repeated.

“We make frequent visits hither,” said the attendant. “We come almost

daily in good weather.”

“Oh, yes!” said the child, “we come every fine day to visit where mother

lies—and I am not afraid.”

“Why should you fear?” said I.

The child looked confused at the question.

“You will some day _meet_ your mother if you are constant in your love,

and thus seek to do whatever your friends tell you she would have

desired, and to avoid what she would not have approved.”

“I will endeavor to do so—but—I shall not meet her—we are going to

Europe again, and shall not return.”

“To Europe—but, my child, God is everywhere.”

“Yes, sir; but my mother is not.”

“But, my dear child, your mother’s spirit, her soul, that which is loved

in your mother, is, I hope, in Heaven; it is not in the grave to moulder

into dust—the body takes that course, but the spirit returns to God who

gave it.”

“Sir,” said the attendant, “they do not teach the child such things, and

they do not approve of them.”

“Who does not?”

“Her father and a cousin—they are good people, but are unbelievers in

all such matters; and though they seldom dispute with others, they never

admit of any instruction to their child about religion.”

“But,” said I, “she must know something about it.”

“Not at all, sir; she does not know what you mean by a spirit or a soul.

How should she know—the cousin is her teacher, and she never refers to

the subject, and forbids it to me.”

“But the child has been taught something of the kind.”

“Who taught her, sir?”

“Perhaps God. But I will see whether she has any idea of the matter.”

“Do you know, my child, what the soul is?”

“No sir—do you?”

I did not like to reply to her query—so I proceeded, “Your mother has

yet an existence, and if she was good—”

“Oh, my mother was very good—always good.”

“Then the spirit which animated her body is in the enjoyment of all the

good belonging to its present state, which the body could enjoy on

earth—it is happy.” I was ashamed of the explanation.

“Would it be like her, if I could see it?”

“Probably exactly like her.”

“And could I see or know of her real existence in that state?”

“Yes, though not usual. All is possible with God.”

“Then I understand you. I have seen her often—often at night; and I

have started as if I had been asleep. But at night I see my mother just

as she looked when I saw her before her death, only there seemed to be

light around her head, and she moved easily and rapidly. Oh, how night

after night I have been with her, toiling on to overtake her steps, or

carried rapidly forward; sometimes she seems to give me

instruction—sometimes I rise in the morning and think I will pray to

her, or I will pray God to give her to me again; and I have made known

my feelings to cousin, and she has laughed at me or chid me for being so

babyish as to be thoughtful about dreams. But I see now that this was

truly my mother, and I will watch to-night, and when she comes again, I

will ask her about her soul—have we all souls?”

I think, _now_, that I could have placed the child in a position to

comprehend these things a little better; but _then_ I was confused with

the extraordinary state of the child’s mind.

“Did God teach her that?” said the attendant.

“Did he not teach her that?” I turned away as I saw some one coming down

the walk.

Did God teach that child? Was it the yet unfaded visions from which her

soul was drawn, ere it became a tenant of the clayey tabernacle that was

overshadowing her mind; the recollections of heaven illuminating its

little earthly experience, growing dimmer and dimmer with time—was that

the mother in the child, or was there, indeed, an appeal to its mind

through its affections? Had she, shut out from all instructors during

the day, denied all the knowledge which is the true foundation of a

Christian’s life—denied it by father and relative—had she, in her bed,

been met as little Samuel was met, by the voice of God, calling up the

mind to its high destiny, and instructing it in the things that were to

come?

I could not solve this enigma. But how innocent, how attractive to the

spirit of goodness must have been the mind of that little girl; and it

would not be strange, at least it would seem most meet, that her

guardian spirit should find means to awaken in her a sense of her

importance, and to invite her to goodness by her love for a departed

mother. I turned round before I left the ground, and saw the little

child standing beside the grave. She looked down steadily upon the

uplifted earth, and then turned her face upward, and seemed to gaze with

intense interest into the blue sky above. I would have given much to

know the thoughts that had occupied her mind, to have seen how love for

the perishing object below, how reverence for the purified spirit above

were alternating in her mind. I am sure that her thoughts had in them

more of maturity and truth relative to those objects of her

contemplation, than they had of the things of this life.

I passed onward to the road, full of the idea of the child, who could

not be deprived of knowledge. I had found an early flower—the chill of

winter, its snows and its frosts, had forbidden its development—but a

gentle ray from the sun of truth had called it forth; it was blossoming

for man, delightful now, to be transplanted to its native heaven

hereafter.

C.

* * * * *

THE SEWING GIRL.—The inequality of social life and domestic comfort in

large cities, is, we presume, inseparable from a state of society as at

present organized, and the bold reformer, even while he is preaching, is

illustrating its incapacity for sudden change. So long as capital

possesses supreme power, and the inherent quality of reproduction, there

must be dependents and laborers. We cannot all ride in carriages, or

there would be none to build them, and the present stock, we think,

would in time grow ricketty upon the hands of the most adroit leveler.

And if we descended into a race of pedestrians, we fear that we should

in time, even if we divided the last dollar with a needy brother, be

looked upon as soulless and decidedly shabby. We do not know that

Fourier, even in his maddest dreams of social reformation and equality,

ever seriously contemplated an era when boots should grow upon trees,

without the aid of human hands, and coats come down like snow-flakes to

cover our nakedness. We think not. And even if he had, there are certain

disagreeable anticipations—aside from want of modesty—in wandering

about on a wintry day, hunting for garments—to say nothing of having

our beef killed and cooked to stay our appetites the while.

We suppose then we must have sewing girls—but we see no necessity of

forgetting that they are girls—and neither horses nor mules—that they

are human beings—noble women, with as warm hearts, and as good blood as

ourselves, feeling the same yearnings after sympathy, the same keenness

of suffering under insult, neglect or wrong. There is no necessary

humiliation in labor. It is in itself of the highest dignity and of the

loftiest nobility of extraction. She who, by assiduous industry, makes

her little home happy, clothes her infant brothers, and administers to

the wants of an aged and decrepit parent, has clothed herself in the

holiest of garments, and though their texture may not be of the finest,

she may stand up proudly beside the purple of a queen, and if she sees

but the trembling of scorn upon the royal lip, may say, “_Stand off! I

am nobler than thou!_” The treatment, however, which some of them

receive from very fashionable and very silly young ladies, who have been

badly educated by ignorant and vulgar mothers, is humiliating to witness

occasionally, and must be very hard to bear continually.

“Hark! that rustle of a dress,

Stiff with lavish costliness;

Here comes one whose cheek would flush

But to have her garment brush

’Gainst the girl whose fingers thin

Wove the weary broidery in,

And in midnight’s still and murk

Stitched her _life_ into the work,

Bending backward from her toil,

Lest her tears the silk might soil,

Shaping from her bitter thought

Heart’s-ease and forget-me-not.

Satirizing her despair

With the emblem woven there.”

And yet the fashionable young lady may number among her accomplishments

a smattering of French, or a villainous enunciation of Italian; may

thrash the piano, with all discordancy, and nurse her poodle dog with

infinite grace, and call it very fatiguing, and be obliged to take a nap

after dinner, for fear her strength may fail her in the evening, in the

waltz with Mr. Alfred Fitzhuggens, who labors under the accomplishments

of an imperial and a dandy cane; while the young sewing girl may be

devoting diligently sixteen hours out of the weary twenty-four, in

earning the most indifferent food for a family of dependents.

We wonder if these young ladies while thumbing their gilt prayer-books

on Sunday, and lisping over the prayer, “From all blindness of heart,

from pride, vain glory, and hypocrisy; from envy, hatred, and malice,

and all uncharitableness, _Good Lord, deliver us_,” ever think of the

meaning and solemn import of the words they are using. We doubt it. Or

in the more direct adjuration, “That it may please thee to strengthen

those who stand, _and comfort and help the weak hearted_,” they ever

think how little their heartlessness to dependents justifies them in

putting up the prayer. Or still further, do they ever think of the

obligations of that sublime command, in which Christianity sparkles like

a divine light, “As ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to

them.” We fear that at many a table where grace is said, the hearts who

hear it are utterly graceless in this regard, and that many who are very

rigid in paying the formalities of prayer to God, forget the divine

injunction, “feed my lambs,” and would rather add an additional hour to

the day of toil, and a shilling less to the pay of the toil-worn sewing

girl, than to lighten her burdens by a cheerful word or token of

encouragement.

Not that we wish for a moment to be supposed as intimating that this

lack of enlarged charity is wanting in well trained hypocrites only—who

do not dishonor religion, but by daily acts prove its truth and beauty,

by showing that they are none of Christ’s. The haughty assumption and

vulgar domineering is far worse where _all_ restraint is thrown off, and

worldliness unmitigated and shameless, in scarlet and effrontery, rides

purse proud over the decencies as well as the charities of life, and

makes dependency a worse slavery than that of the poor Indian in the

mines.

The character of a lady is in no way more surely tested than in

treatment of her domestics—and, _generally_, in the frequency with

which she changes them. Depend upon it—the house in which _nobody_ can

be happy, must be a miniature of existence in a darker world.

G. R. G.

* * * * *

CAPE MAY SEASON.—As the warm weather steals upon us, our friends begin

to talk of “the Capes,” and to look up straw hats and bathing-dresses.

Cape May has in its very sound a charm pleasingly familiar to almost

every Philadelphia ear. Here visits the merchant in the summer months,

for relaxation from the counting-room—the clerk for his holydays—the

man of pleasure for enjoyment—the idle for luxurious indolence. It is

Philadelphia in miniature, and full of life—lively, chatty, gossipy,

and hilarious—disposed to enjoyment, and determined to have it. A

family reunion at holyday times.

The old gentleman has a reputation abroad for great simplicity of

manner—wearing his coat of the very purest material, and of the very

plainest cut—and a hat of undeniable beaver, of great amplitude of

brim; a sturdy old chap, with a benevolent face, who gives his simple

and emphatic “No!” to the allurements and pressing solicitations of

folly. The younger shoots have departed greatly from the plainness of

the primitive tree, and flourish in the luxuriousness of magnolia and

orange blossoms, and show a strong tendency to burst out in all the

beauty and splendor of hot-house “japonicadom.” Yet under the eye of the

old gentleman, in these holyday times, the youngsters seem to scorn the

borrowed aid of laces, satins and jewelry, and give tight boots,

dandy-coats, and perfumery the go-by; for it is whispered, that he shuts

his money-box rather tightly to such of his heirs as run after worldly

vanities; so that here you may see them in blouses and straw-hats, in

dressing-gown and slippers, perfectly unrestrained with tight lacing,

luxuriously happy, and indescribably gay. They go about with an honest,

hearty, unrestrained laugh—snapping their fingers at care, and

perfectly unconcerned at the imputation of having let down their

dignity. The family improves evidently under this relaxation from

brocades and stiff ceremonies. They have a more hearty expression of

face, a more thoroughly robust and vigorous frame, and though the cheek

may be a little browner, the eye is brighter, and the heart happier.

The regular visiter at these times is a black-eyed, cherry-cheeked

cousin from Baltimore, a little given to flirting and dangerously

fascinating, as graceful as a young fawn, and as frolicksome as a

kitten. She always appears to have come down purposely for a romp,

having left city affectations at home, and brought her graces with her.

Then she wont go home until she has half a dozen of her cousins—from

the third to the sixth remove—desperately in love with her, to keep

them in mind of Cape May.

Then “Tom”—“Our Tom”—he is always there; Tom wouldn’t miss Cape May,

in the season, for a £100—and the sly dog knows how to show off the

attractions of his beautiful cousins. He is sure to decoy them into the

Archery every bright morning, and has so many neat and appropriate

remarks in regard to the health and gracefulness of the exercise—and

the bows are so inviting, and the arrows so neat—the gold and crimson

target so tempting that you do not wonder to see a cloud of arrows

filling the air, and a crowd of lounging _beaux_, filled with shafts

more dangerous. Then “Tom”—sad Tom—knows that his fair cousins are as

fearless as beautiful, and fire off pistols with quite a soldierly

air—that is, when Tom loads them; and the sly scamp, speaks in so low a

tone—so softly and so kindly—when he hands the pistol with the

hair-trigger, that you are amazed to find that there was powder in it

when it goes off—and at the first crack “Tom” has the whole family

there; then he is such a lover of enjoyment himself—is good, honest,

manly Tom Barrett—that it delights him to see them. Then he has his

Bowling Saloons in tiptop order; his Billiard-room, too; his dogs and

guns for crack shots at woodcock, and ambitious young sportsmen after

curlew; and then he has—In short, it wouldn’t _be_ Cape May, if Tom

wasn’t there—and there’s an end of it. Well, well, Tom! we shall not

try your pistols nor your archery this summer, but shall take a crack at

Cape May, in a story, which we have in type. So let the surf come

tumbling in with its musical roar—its wild waves wash out no memories.

Our loves and our hates keep time in the heart which beats on proudly,

yet bides its time hopefully. In the roar of the wilder ocean, where men

go down battling unregretted, how many who now spread their bright sails

to the favoring breeze, shall, ere the voyage is ended, find sail and

cordage gone, their vessels wrecked, and the happy hearts of merry

companions, one after the other, swept by the remorseless wave forever

under—who shall tell, Tom! But so the side toward heaven has been

ripened by the sunlight of kindness to man, what matters the breakers,

Tom, to you or to me?

“Dipping his feathers in the briny foam;

Not less quick o’er the white wave Hermes rode.”

G. R. G.

* * * * *

[Illustration: WAITING AT PANAMA FOR THE STEAMER.—_The Sun going down

on their Hopes._]

WAITING AT PANAMA.

The sad effects of an insane haste to grow rich by chasing gilded

shadows, instead of taking the secure path of industry, are exemplified

in the fact, that hundreds of our countrymen who have abandoned places

of profit for the dazzling placers of speculation, and business, which

afforded a decent competency, for wild and uncertain adventure, are now

crowding the shore of the Pacific at Panama, with exhausted means and

dissipated hopes. The all-absorbing desire for speedy fortune precluded

even the common and most ordinary caution as to probabilities. At the

first sound of the horn, the hunter was off, regardless of obstacles,

defiant of fate, and with a recklessness unpardonable, the comforts of

home were sacrificed, and all the dangers of a doubtful, hardy, and

perilous enterprise were imprudently braved. The sad uncertainty of

fortune—the more than doubts of her existence for them—has been

cruelly thrust into their faces, and impressed upon their hearts. The

return of that tremendous tide, which seemed to sweep wise men and

madmen together resistlessly upon its bosom, comes freighted with the

first fragments of hopes wrecked, and wealth, and perhaps health

dissipated and lost. Time and opportunity here—more valuable than

gold—are gone, and the adventurer comes back with unstrung nerves and

faded visions of greatness, to battle again in the busy and

uncompromising marts of trade, for bread. The illusion has

vanished!—the cheat is transparent! “The sober second-thought” has come

with its impressive lesson. The blanks turn out in this, as in all

lotteries, the most numerous and certain—the prizes equally few and

unreliable. When the voice of that vaster multitude now filling the

streams and plains of California shall have been heard, we shall have a

sonorous echo of the despairing wail of the impoverished and deluded at

Panama. Mark it!

* * * * *

“Be sure you are right, and then go ahead” is a maxim so universally

current in this country, that one would suppose that its practice would

be more common. But no! in the rush of excitement, the go-ahead spirit

takes the lead, leaving at home old father Caution to play with his

thumbs, and to wonder at his relations. “Get out of the way!” “Take

care!” “Clear the track!” “Off she goes!”—_whiz!_ and the young

generation is cut from leading-strings, and half-way on the road to

fortune before Grandfather has rubbed his eyes, and opened them to the

true state of affairs around him—no, not _around_, before him, but

completely out of sight. Talk of Rome not having been built in a day,

old Graybeard! You are behind the times. Kingdoms shoot up in a night,

and nations are born between two breakfasts. Don’t speak of the

ingratitude of relations, old man; the thing is absurd. While you are

hunting genealogies, the parties have belted the world, and are walking

with their heads down directly beneath you, or are half-way to the

Pacific on an air-line in the light that marks the horizon—skimming

through the clouds in a flying machine. “Friendly ties.” “Home

affection!” Poh! you are in your dotage, old fellow! We have no time to

waste on silly abstractions! Good bye! Take care of _yourself_! Will

write you from the other side! So we go!

But are we happier for all this fiery impetuosity of disposition—this

ginger-beer effervescence of intellect—this fussing, fretting, fuming

wrath of haste to get on, to get off, to be going? Is _this_ the true

enjoyment of LIFE! after all, to go whirling along in a state of high

excitement without a moment’s pause, with a sort of insane heat and

fierceness of intellect, restless, roaming, and parched up with the

fever of desire for wealth—to be enslaved by the eternal, all-absorbing

all-engulphing _I_—the monster self, grown Colossal, insatiate, and

fiend-like. Is there nothing worth loving, that we may pause to cherish?

No enjoyment worth a cool moment, in which the fevered lust of money may

be forgotten? Pile up your gold, young man! Give your imagination its

most boundless desire! Spread the base of your pyramid over an area of

acres! Pile up!—pile high! oh, avarice and pride! Let its peak touch

the skies! ay, higher still! And now we point you to that little cluster

of bleached bones, whitening but a spot beside the gigantic god you

worship, and to that young, pale face, sitting sighing by yonder

fire-side, thousands of miles away—would the wealth that might cover

the Cyclops, compensate _her_ for the chilled heart, the desolate days

which are hers. Ah no! with but a crust to break with you, in a home of

humbleness and peace, how that heart would bound with pride, those sad

eyes sparkle with pleasure, and those pale cheeks regain their roses and

bloom with health. And if all the wealth of India and Peru were hers,

how poor a gift would she esteem it to clothe those bones of yours once

again with manly beauty, and to sit once again confidingly by your side,

her hand in yours, her eyes lifted to your dark gaze, as to the heaven

of her dreams. Ah! but you will not die, you will take the risk. Pause

awhile! think of it wisely! think of it well!

We are not talking in the language of statesmen. Ah, no! statesmen and

warriors estimate men in masses—marshal them in squadrons and platoons;

they form a State—they fill a list of 10,000 killed and wounded. Ours

is the humbler view—the domestic ties lacerated—the friendships

dissipated—the few hearts broken. The dead of the ten thousand slain

upon the battle-field return no more—the thrice ten thousand hearts

that mourn, bleed on, but form no part of the estimate of war’s

disaster. The thousands of brothers, young, impetuous, adventurous, are

gone! they are the State’s, and of it. The sister weeps—the mother

droops and dies, as the long years roll on, and the lost ones return no

more; and the proud page of history swells with the triumph, the pen

grows eloquent as it records the foundation and the growth of empire,

and bright names live and flash along the glowing line; but the desolate

heart, and the desolate hearth, are forgotten and unknown. These are the

sadder views of conquest—the inevitable results of adventurous

migration. “And yet,” cries the brawling patriot who is never _self_

devoted, “you oppose the march of empire—the growth of nations!” By no

means, good friend! If the thousands who are now pouring as a flood into

California, or even a tythe of them, were whole families, with farming

utensils, and domestic implements, seeking a far off and productive

soil, where they might again erect their household gods, and live

happily to a green old age, under their own vine and fig-tree, extending

rationally and naturally the benefits of civilization, we should wish

them God speed, and give them joy at their going. But how is it? Reader,

we ask _you_—how is it with the adventurers, who are now rushing

thoughtlessly, desperately from home? How few, even with the best

success, will realize their dreams? and of those few, how many will

really be personally benefited by the wealth thus achieved? But the vast

army of the disappointed—what of them? With morals contaminated, hearts

sickened, hopes crushed—how many will return useful members of society?

How many settle quietly down as hardy tillers of the soil? We fear, oh,

most wise politician! that this last is a work to be done by another

class of emigrants, and by but few of the gold hunters, and desperate

land speculators who now crowd the vessels of the Pacific. Our advice,

deeply pondered, and calmly given, to those who have a longing for that

far-off and fertile region, is, to sit earnestly down to business here,

and amass a few hundreds, or a few thousands, and when the scorn of that

boiling, seething cauldron shall have passed off—when the thousands

which have been made—_on paper_—in land speculations and gold mining,

shall be no more heard of—you will find a few quiet acres still

untilled, a population improved, and a certainty of comfort and

happiness awaiting you there. Until then, we think, you may make life

bearable here, by diligent application to business, a devotion to your

family, to home duties and affections, and to careful improvement of

your mental capacity, and of such opportunities as God may furnish you

for doing good. Think of it, reader!

G. R. G.

* * * * *

THE FAMILY MESSENGER.—This old and sterling family newspaper, we see,

has been brought out in a suit of new and beautiful type, and is

otherwise improved and adorned. It has had, too, an accession of

editorial force, and the new pen, with the aid of Mr. Seckel, its old

editor, makes the sheet sparkle again. We predict for the old favorite a

new lease of popular favor, and a circulation unequaled by any paper of

its class. Various other additions, in the mechanical as well as the

literary department, are still to be added, when the office is removed

to the new building in Chestnut street—the movements of beauty on that

delightful promenade, will, of course, be duly chronicled hereafter, in

the piquant style of the editors.

* * * * *

A POWERFUL NOVEL.—We shall commence in the July number, a powerfully

written story from the pen of H. W. Herbert, Esq., author of “Cromwell,”

“Ringwood the Rover,” etc., which we pronounce the most brilliant of all

the able novels of that accomplished and vigorous writer. It is entitled

“JASPER ST. AUBYN; _A Story of Passion_,” and for strength and beauty of

expression, thrilling and intense interest, and high moral and tragic

effect, our readers will regard it as the _best story_ we have given

them for many a day.

* * * * *

BIRDS BEAUTIFULLY COLORED.—We purpose to introduce into Graham’s

Magazine, in the coming volume, a series of Wild and Cage Birds,

exquisitely designed and colored, and our artists are already at work.

We think that this feature of the Magazine will be highly popular with

our readers, and as the plates will be accompanied with carefully

prepared letter-press descriptions; they will be found useful to the

many who cultivate a taste for these beautiful subjects. This, we have

no doubt, will be _imitated_ as every thing has been in the Magazine

world which has originated with us.

* * * * *

THE OLDEST MAGAZINE.—Our correspondent, “History,” is informed that he

is right in his conjecture, that “Graham’s Magazine” was based upon

“_The Casket_,” and hence is the oldest of the illustrated monthlies. It

is our proud satisfaction that ours is the _best_, as well as the oldest

Magazine. It does not require continued puffing, either hired or

solicited, to make people aware of its existence.

* * * * *

OUR OWN ARTISTS ABROAD.—In order to keep the high position of this

Magazine, as a work of art, fully up to the standard it has attained, we

have sent our excellent engraver and designer, W. E. Tucker, Esq., to

Europe to make careful drawings of such subjects as he may find upon the

walls of the Academies, or in private collections, and to engage such

American artists as he may find abroad, who may be useful in carrying

out our grand design of being _the first to introduce new subjects to

the American eye_. Our cotemporaries content themselves with

re-engraving stale prints which may be found in the windows, or in using

such cast-off English plates as may be offered here cheap; but the vast

circulation and profit of this work returns to our readers in such

liberal arrangements to keep them advised of the freshest and most

beautiful works of art as may be found in the wide range of the world.

For several years our Fashion Plates have been brought freshly from

Paris, and their beauty of design and coloring has been the subject of

universal praise. Now, by having _our own artists_ employed, both abroad

and at home, we not only defy competition, but laugh at it.

* * * * *

THE NEW VOLUME.—With the next number we commence a new volume of

Graham’s Magazine, which, we do not hesitate to promise our readers

shall be one of rare excellence and beauty. Our past volume, closing

with this number, was exhausted very early, and we have consequently

been obliged for two months past to refuse all orders for the work from

January last. We shall therefore furnish our subscribers with a title

page for the coming volume in our next issue. All our arrangements for

the next six months are perfected, and from July to December our readers

may expect a succession of brilliant numbers in every respect. Our

increase for the past six months has been unexampled, and with the

steady flow of new names, coming with every mail, we look forward to

being compelled greatly to amplify our means of producing our edition.

Our printers now run their presses both night and day—keeping us

frequently waiting for copies to supply the demand. Hoe certainly must

invent a _book-press_ to run 10,000 per hour for us, and at our demise

we shall leave him the copyright of Graham.

* * * * *

RIVALS.—We see a great deal about the rivals of Graham, going the

rounds in the way of paid notices. Does the oldest inhabitant remember a

time when such notes were not given out? We have a brood of these

rivals, freshly fledged every spring, who die somehow of the praise of

the penny-a-liners in literature,

Snooks has an article in the “Great Monthly Thundergust,” calculated to

make a noise.

“I will write a first rate notice,” says Snooks, “and mark it for the

benefit of country members, and if that doesn’t _settle_ Graham and

Godey, I’ll write you an article for nothing.”

“Goodness!” says the new editor—“but—but do you think it is exactly

fair to break down their business all at once, in that way? Remember

their interesting families, Mr. Snooks.”

“Families, sir! who talks about families when we commence a Thundergust!

Get up a breeze! Pile on the agony, sir! You are too meek, sir!—too

tame!—chicken-hearted, sir!—too tender!—too—too—will you oblige me

with $20 till to-morrow? _Settle_ is the word!”

An awkward one it is, too—this settling with Indians, when they turn on

you.

* * * * *

The fishermen of Philadelphia recently turned out in opposition to the

firemen. They kept themselves closely concealed in covered wagons.

_Sell-fish_ fellows!

* * * * *

Du Solle turned out a poor number of his new paper, “The Extra,” lately.

“Extra?” inquires a wag—“this is extra-_ordinary_.”

* * * * *

I CAN’T MAKE UP MY MIND:

THE WORDS FROM HOOD’S MAGAZINE,

ADAPTED TO A MELODY

BY F. OTTO,

AND ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO

BY CHAS. GROBE.

Presented by G. Willig, No. 171 Chestnut St. Published by G. Willig Jr.

Baltimore.

[Entered according to act of Congress, by G. Willig, Jr., in the year

1848, at the Clerk’s Office, of the District Court of Md.]

[Illustration]

1st Verse.

I can’t make up my mind, mamma,

In such unseemly haste;

Nor pick from all my dying swains

A husband to my taste.

There’s gay Charles Dash, a charming man,

Most affable and kind

Who loves me so de-

[Illustration]

vo-ted-ly,

But I can’t make up my mind.

SECOND VERSE.

And, next, there’s frank, young Harry West,

So fond, so true, so clever,

Who though I scold him all the day,

Adores me more than ever.

There’s Roger Snipe, the pink of beaux,

Or else your daughter’s blind,

And yet when Snipe grows serious, I

I can’t make up my mind.

THIRD VERSE.

There’s lawyer Keen, and poet Good,

Exemplars of their sort;

Still, still I can’t make up my mind

There’s no accounting for’t!

“Yes, yes, there is,” stern truth replied;

“Your vanity imparts

That false delight in flatt’ring tongues,

Which forfeits loving hearts.”

FOURTH VERSE.

On purpose to make up her mind,

So long this fair one tarried,

Her lovers, loath to hang themselves,

Sought other maids and married!

And, though mamma is growing old,

Her daughter looks much older,

E’er since her coquetry and pride

In the Old Maids Corps enroll’d her.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as well as some

spellings peculiar to Graham’s. Punctuation has been corrected without

note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For

illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to

condition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook.

page 339, and paralized at their ==> and paralyzed at their

page 340, the port of frankness, ==> the part of frankness,

page 344, hast thou give to ==> hast thou given to

page 347, cross old fidgetty fellow ==> cross old fidgety fellow

page 348, rare and so indiscribable. ==> rare and so indescribable.

page 350, lend him Deidrich Knickerbocker’s ==> lend him Diedrich

Knickerbocker’s

page 351, will not be be dictated ==> will not be dictated

page 353, and like a bark ==> and like a barque

page 353, And gave embodyment ==> And gave embodiment

page 359, labored assidiously, when ==> labored assiduously, when

page 363, the somethat affected ==> the somewhat affected

page 363, of faultless vesification ==> of faultless versification

page 370, to and fro the ==> to and fro in the

page 372, those charms to day!” ==> those charms to-day!”

page 372, fisher’s bark still ==> fisher’s barque still

page 374, Sickness is synonimous ==> Sickness is synonymous

page 375, a most woful-loooking ==> a most woful-looking

page 377, a blank envelop. ==> a blank envelope.

page 385, is usually characterestic only ==> is usually characteristic

only

page 385, as they eat, dressed, ==> as they ate, dressed,

page 388, Stiched her _life_ into ==> Stitched her _life_ into

page 392, Jasper St. Albyn ==> Jasper St. Aubyn