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to extend so congenial an employment as executing designs for porcelain to women, for which the school must qualify them rapidly."

But we have a still more unprejudiced testimony to adduce, which we noted some two years since, in an able article upon the rise and fortunes of the Peel family, in the "Manchester (England) Examiner and Times." In speaking of the chintz manufactories of Peel and Yates, the writer pauses to say, "It has often been a matter of surprise to me that women are never educated as pattern designers. Surely, in the present very great dearth of profitable female employment, some good father or brother might have thought of this; for it seems one especially suited to a woman's nature, and its object is the garments she herself exclusively wears. Perhaps man will some time resign to the more graceful and gentle sex an occupation so delicate and fanciful, and one every way befitting them as an employment; for, by a quick and vivid fancy, joined to a delicate and sensitive touch, woman appears formed, with proper education, to excel in this art. And I believe, generally speaking, with the

same instruction, a young woman, from her greater quickness of perception and innate love and aspirations for the beautiful, will in five years arrive at a higher degree of excellence than a youth in the same time."

An unbiassed opinion, so gracefully expressed, must "carry weight;" and we have introduced it as summing up the principal reasons in support of our proposition, that all branches of design are essentially suited to the feminine employments. With every necessary natural and artistic qualification, the graceful pursuit can be conducted in the quiet of home, with surroundings that must of themselves bring pure and beautiful thoughts. When novelty and jealousy shall have ceased to excite envy and suspicion among those who would keep our sex from honest independence, a wide sphere of employment will be opened by this and similar institutions to educated, intelligent women; for surely, if English manufacturers are not content to be under the control of foreign influence, our own countrymen can never be.

THE SWEETEST SLEEP; OR, THE POET'S FIRST INSPIRATION.

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

BY F. A. GAGE.

POETS are inspired. The world says so; and the world is a gray-headed teacher, whose words may not lightly be doubted. But the world simply asserts a general fact; so we, without irreverence, may qualify, describe, and illustrate it.

A great inspiration makes a great poet; a common sized one a common kind of a poet; and a small one a proportionately small poet. But when inspiration is resolved into its true limits, it appears like all things else in nature to be made. The mind of the poet is cut off from its accustomed channels for a season of its own accord, and all its powers are concentrated in a single shoot, which stretches upward with prodigious speed, and spreads out its broad and tender leaves in the genial light. And, like its counterpart in nature, it is forced beyond its allotted bounds by the impulse, and is often cut down unfinished by the frosts of autumn. Whether it be rough and strong like the oak, dark and towering like the pine, smooth and delicate like the maple, or meek and lowly like the weeping willow, depends upon the natural qualities of the source from which it springs; for the offspring reflects the image of the fount: a gloomy mind produces gloomy thoughts, and a merry mind inspires mirth.

And, now that we have qualified and described, let us illustrate.

In a little New England country village, known

far and near by the appropriate title of Tattleville, lived a youth of quiet, but humorous turn of mind, who amused himself during his leisure moments writing prose for "the papers." Thus far, he had not dared to "try his hand" at poetry; but one day, as he was repeating to himself,

"Tis sweet to sleep where wild-flowers bloom Around the pilgrim's forest tomb

a rhyme he had made without meaning to-an uncommonly ludicrous idea disturbed the even tenor of his thoughts. 'Twas the birth of inspiration. Immediately all the powers of his mind gathered around it; and, after two days' growth, it developed into the following elevated poem :

"Tis sweet to sleep where wild flowers bloom
Around the pilgrim's forest tomb,
Where naught but wild-bird's carol gay
Is heard from dawn till dusk of day!

"Tis sweet to sleep where mermaids dwell,
Far down within some rocky dell,
Where playful sea-fish find a home,
And earth's wild sorrows never come.

"Tis sweet to sleep where wild winds rave Above the sailor's island grave; "Tis sweet, when life's rough voyage is o'er, To sleep where billows roll no more.

'Tis sweet to sleep at glory's call,
'Tis sweet upon her field to fall;
But sweeter far his sleep shall be
Who falls defending Liberty!

This brought him to the point where he wished to
introduce his ludicrous idea, and render the change
from the sublime sudden and irresistible. But, like
the natural life to which we have compared it, his
inspiration had spent its force, and no exertion of
his could bring it back to finish its work. The re-
sult was inevitable. There was a great falling off
of the green leaves of skill, leaving the knotty and
uneven stalk without an ornament. The first two
lines were obscure, the third contained three feet of
anapest instead of the four feet of trochee that
pre-
ceded and followed it, while the fourth was decided-
ly plain. But go it must, and go it did; for, though
the mirthful inspiration of our poet had passed
away,
the root remained.

In the next week's edition of the "Tattleville Gazette," the editor inserted, "If the author of 'Tis Sweet to Sleep' will call at this office, we will show him something that may be for his interest to see."

In due time, the young sprig of a rhymer paid his respects to that, to him, important personage, who immediately produced his communication, and inquired the meaning of the concluding verse.

"I meant to raise a laugh," he replied, "by the oddity of the idea, and the sudden change from the sublime to the ridiculous."

"I suppose it is original ?" observed the editor, inquiringly, coming at once, and not very guardedly, to the point.

"Certainly, sir, certainly," replied the other, with a confiding frankness that put his well-founded suspicions to flight.

"I thought I had read a poem very much like it, somewhere," continued the editor, evasively, evidently wishing to turn the subject as quickly and as lightly as possible, now that he saw his error. will send it to you, if I can find it."

"I

"I shall be happy to see it," returned the bard; "for, if there is a similarity, it must be accidental." And, after agreeing to a compromise, which was nothing less than the decapitation of the child of his brains, he received the assurance that its remains should be attended to, and took his leave. "Bold tactics for me," he exclaimed, as he merrily plodded homeward. "Had I not faced the enemy, he would have taken me for a cowardly thief." Then he repeated the suspicious verse

"For sleeps like these we 'll shed no tear;
Far sweetest is the drunkard's bier,
When he tumbles, because of his glasses,
Into a hogshead of molasses!"

The intended ideas of which, had not his inspira-
tion failed him, he would have conveyed by rhym-

ing that he would not weep if he could not enjoy
such sweet slumbers, and then he would have as-
signed the reason by thus delicately hinting his
preference-

Far sweetest is the drunkard's sleep,
When he falls into a hogshead deep!

The moral of our story, O ye unripened twigs of inspiration! is-whittle your arrow down to a point, that it may not rebound and pierce the heart of him who gives it flight.

RECEIPT FOR A FASHIONABLE NOVEL. TAKE your hero and heroine and put them on to simmer, taking care they do not boil over during the first Volume.

Be sure to throw in a sufficient quantity of Dukes and Duchesses, and season plentifully with Almacks, the Opera, and Devonshire House. Some literary celebrities might be added, but they must not be too pungent.

Put to these a pound and a half of love, an ounce of jealousy, and three or four drops of morality, just to give it a consistence; but be careful not to put too much of the latter, or it might turn out heavy. To prevent this, sprinkle it over with plenty of small talk, (if you can procure any wit, so much the better,) and lard it well with quotations, French phrases and incidents, which need have nothing to do with the main story. You may flavor with a little sentiment, but take care it is not too romantic, or poetical, or the whole might ferment. A spice of impropriety, and a crime or two, if well glazed over, would be an improvement as a sauce piquant.

After having well stirred and strained them, you may pour all the personages into a country seat, or park, and leave the ingredients to work together during the second volume. Be sure you drop in a country ball, an election, private theatricals, and moonlight walks in plenty. You should then begin to consider how you mean it to turn out, and let the plot thicken. If it be to end well, and all to be cleared up like a calves-foot jelly, the most approved method is for the hero and heroine to meet in the first volume, quarrel in the second, and marry in the third. But if the other plan, more like an Italian cream, be adopted, your heroine should marry towards the end of the first volume, fall in love in the second, and elope in the third. You may either kill her or not, as it suits you.

Having determined this point, spin your novel out, and strain it to the utmost, then butter the dish well with flattery of popular authors, garnish the heads of the chapters with German and Italian mottoes, and it will be sure to turn out to your wishes.

POETRY.

THE ENGLISH LARK.

BY ANNE MARIA W. WARD.

THE morning sun is shining bright on merry England's hills,

And fragrance from the dewy flowers the air with sweetness fills;

A thousand beauties greet the eye, and melodies the earNature puts on her loveliest face, and all her charms appear.

The feathered warblers have begun their matin carols now, And songs of praise ascend to God from many a waving bough;

But sweetest of the tuneful notes in that wild concert given, Is heard the music of the Lark as she ascends to heaven.

Uprising from her lowly nest, she spreads the downy wing, And, mounting upward toward the skies, her sweetest song doth sing:

Still onward in the blue expanse and upward is her flight, Till in ethereal realms above she soars beyond our sight.

But still her cheerful song is heard in softer, sweeter notes,
As, by celestial breezes borne, upon the air it floats:
What is it, heavenward-soaring bird, attracts thy upward
flight?

What glories does thine eye behold in yonder realms of light?

So doth the Christian love at morn a cheerful song to raise; He loves to lift his heart in prayer, and raise his voice in praise:

The quiet hours of opening day are to devotion given-
He with the lark doth soar aloft, and converse hold with
Heaven.

Why should the golden morning hours, the best of all the day,

Upon a soft and downy couch be idly thrown away?

No! rather, with the early lark, our souls shall heavenward rise

And we'll bring back again to earth the spirit of the skies. The bird descends on graceful wing, she takes her homeward flight,

Returning to her lowly nest from that celestial height! And so the Christian, who enjoys communion with his God, Seeks not a lofty sphere on earth, where mortals may applaud,

But from the loftiest height of bliss to which his soul may

soar,

Returns to humble duties, far more humble than before.

Sweet bird! still warble forth thy song while thou art on the wing;*

The Christian, too, and he alone, when leaving earth can sing;

While heaven is bursting on his view, and rapture fills his soul,

He sings the song of victory, for he has reached the goal.

The lark is the only bird that sings when flying. VOL. XLV.-24

SONG.

BY WILLIAM E. GILMORE.

THE hearth was piled with glowing coals, Diffusing warmth and ruddy light; Alone, with ANNIE in my arms,

Oh, I was happy yester-night.

Her beating heart, I felt its throb Whene'er I strained her to my breast, And in its raptured trembling, read

The love I wooed her for, confessed.

Her tearful eyes, so bright and blue, Turned not their melting rays on me; Upon the shadowy ceil she gazed,

Like one who dreams in ecstasy.

And not with words we plighted faith,

Words would the blissful spell have broken; Yet firmer, truer vows than ours, Oh, never yet hath lover spoken.

All fears, all sorrows I forgot

My soul was ravished with delight; Alone, with ANNIE in my arms, Oh, I was happy yester-night.

EGERIA.-A PORTRAIT.

BY J. W. BRYCE.

OH, she was beautiful! The Poet's dream Embodied ne'er a form more heavenly fair: All elements of loveliness did seem

With tribute offerings to gather there, And blend to render one beyond compare! Each charming grace so modestly she wore,

And yet she moved with so divine an air, That, while enough of earth to love, no more Was hers, there was enough of Heaven to adore!

Her eyes, so sweet, serene, and softly blue,
Were filled with bright intelligence the while-
To purest thought and gentlest feeling true;
Artless their every glance, and free from guile-
And that resistless witchery, to wile
The heart away, to her was freely given.

You should have felt the influence of her smile: The quickening ray Prometheus stole from Heaven To animate his dust, had not more magic even.

Her form was cast in nature's perfect mould-
More fair than e'er in Grace or Nymph shone forth;
And fancy still is tame, and words are cold

To paint its matchless beauties, as her worth:
For ne'er before to one of mortal birth
Did all creation's harmonies impart

Such gentle type of loveliness and truth-
Peerless in nature, and transcending art:
Such was the sweet Egeria of my youthful heart.

TWILIGHT DREAMS.

BY MARIE ROSEAU.

IN the stillness and the twilight of this dimly-lighted room, Where the glow from burning embers but half dissipates the gloom,

While without is dreary darkness, and upon the windowpane,

Like gems of ocean, glitter the crystal drops of rain,

I may sit, in pensive musing, with my eyes upon the fire,
To watch the vivid blazes as they spread and then expire,
And recall the olden mem'ries in dim array that pass,
As a host of phantom pictures in a syren's magic glass;
Or dream the untold future, and a fairy structure raise,
Perchance in air to vanish as the bright, uncertain blaze.

The past its spell is throwing upon my dreamy brain,
And I see, as in a vision, the pleasant room again,
Where a household band we gathered around the glowing
hearth,

To listen to some tale of old, or sing in gleeful mirth;
Where I, a little, careless child, have sat upon the floor,
And, gazing on the embers, sought the mystery to explore
Of strange, fantastic figures appearing 'mid them then,
In varied form, and shaping of birds, and beasts, and men;
Or have turned, in wild excitement, as upon my eye would
fall

The gaunt and spectral shadows that were moving on the wall

Have gazed until my brain has reeled in tumult of surprise, At the vague, uncouth proportions that danced before my

eyes.

I scarcely see a shadow now, but comes that transport wild, That strange, delirious feeling that thrilled me when a child.

Another picture glideth before the magic glass,
In panoramic order, as one by one they pass.
It is a pensive vision, and sombre to behold;
No tints of purple decking, no brilliant hues of gold.
The household now are gathered; but one is missing there-
The father-he who sat within that vacant fireside chair.
The room is hushed and quiet, there sounds no voices now,
But silence reigns, and sorrow resteth sadly on each brow.
The shadows seem to deepen and lengthen on the wall,
Until they bear the semblance of sable plumes and pall.
Yet sounds a voice from Heaven within that twilight room-
The youngest lists unheeding those fearful shades of
gloom-

And hopeful thoughts are wakened within each mourning breast,

As come the words of comfort: "The dead in Christ are blest."

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To guide and bear us safely through the conflict and the strife,

Until at length the goal is reached-our battle fought with life.

And when our time of passing through Death's shadowy vale comes on,

Our hearts will falter not, or fear-thou hast the journey won!

And oh! all trustingly we hope, after a "little while," To meet, where partings never come, thy beaming, welcome smile!

MOONLIGHT.

BY M. H. FORTUNE.

"TIS a moonlit hour where the ivy hangs
From a mouldering castle wall,
And many a wild flower peeps from out
The nooks of that ancient hall;

And the soft light shines through the casement wide,
And silvers the broken floor,

Where light feet oft through the dance have moved, In the golden days of yore.

Oh, that holy light! it has travelled far,

It has pierced through the dungeon's gloom; It has carved a ray from its pure, bright source To lay on the silent tomb:

It has bathed in glory the poor man's hearth,

It has rested in regal halls,

And 'tis sleeping now, in a soul-felt calm,

On those old deserted walls.

It is streaming bright through the aspen leaves, So still in the breathless hour,

Like arrows swift from the queen of night,

That come in a silver shower,

To lay in streaks on the polished floor,
Or fall through the portal gray,

As gleams of mem'ry come once more
From the hours long passed away.

Oh, many a troubled, earth-worn heart
Has bent to that tender power,

To the breathing influence, calm and wild,
That mantles a moonlit hour!

And many a heart looks back to find

Its happiest hours in one,

Near a kindly heart, 'mid some peaceful scene, Where the light of the fair moon shone!

"Ah! with the valley's dark clods blended,
Now thy golden ringlets lie!
While all dark, and dimmed, and rayless
Is the radiance of thine eye!"

He rose, now mute and sad, despairing,
His bowed face shaded by his hand,
His ringlets o'er his shoulders waving,
Once by heavenly breezes fanned.
And tears, the first from eyes immortal,
Fell in showers upon the ground;
The sweet" forget-me-not," upspringing,
Covered far the waste around.

Her voice, whose love had cost him Heaven,
Now rose softly on the air;

With outstretched arms and breath suspended,
Knelt he 'mid the blue flowers there.

The legend saith, where wave the blossoms, Boon of that lost angel's tears,

In sorrow hath his spirit wandered

Through lapse of many thousand years.

A LEGEND OF THE "FORGET-ME-NOT."

BY MRS. A. A. BARNES.

BESIDE a lonely streamlet's margin, 'Mid the deluge's wreck profound, A fallen angel, lone, despairing,

Bowed himself upon the ground.

For weary months, with plumes all drooping,
Hovered he the dark floods o'er;

No living thing moved on the waters,
Save those the ark in silence bore.

Now were his winglets' downy whiteness
Dabbled by the dark soil o'er,
His heart immortal wellnigh bursting,
On that once familiar shore.

That love-lit bower, alas! no vestige
Met the starlight of his eyes,
Where he had lost, for love of woman,
His seat in yon celestial skies.

"Loveliest flower among the blossoms,
By the deluge swept away!"
Thus groaned he in the dust, not daring
To raise his eyes to heaven's pure day.

"How oft thy form and voice through ether,
Which I ne'er shall trace again,

Came floating 'mid the white-winged cherubs, And the holy anthem's strain!

"Oh, never, in the golden sunset,
Shall I list thy accents more!

Far sweeter than the music floating
O'er the envied heavenly shore.

"Lovelier than the perfumed blossoms,
In immortal gardens there,
Were thy pure brow's snowy whiteness,
And the sunshine of thy hair.

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And who is left thee now but me?
The world look on in pride and scorn.
Oh, dark, indeed, thy way would be,
With little hope of brightening morn,
Alone to tread the downward road,
Without one pitying hand to save!
No, dearest, I will share the load,
Our parting spot shall be the grave.

And when remorse is on thy breast,
And dark thy brow with inward pain,

Oh, be it mine to tell of rest,

And lead thee to the path again!

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