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.

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.

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.

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.

* * * * *

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.]

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-

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