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to extend so congenial an employment as executing game instruction, a young woman, from her greater designs for porcelain to women, for which the school quickness of perception and innate love and aspiramast qualify them rapidly."

tions for the beautiful, will in five years arrive at a But we have a still more unprejudiced testimony higher degree of excellence than a youth in the to adduce, which we noted some two years since, in same time." an able article upon the rise and fortunes of the An unbiassed opinion, so gracefully expressed, Peel family, in the “Manchester (England) Er must “carry weight;" and we have introduced it as aminer and Times.” In speaking of the chintz summing up the principal reasons in support of our manufactories of Peel and Yates, the writer pauses proposition, that all branches of design are essento say, " It has often been a matter of surprise to tially suited to the feminine employments. With me that women are never educated as pattern de- } every necessary natural and artistic qualification, signers. Surely, in the present very great dearth the graceful pursuit can be conducted in the quiet of profitable female employment, some good father of home, with surroundings that must of themselves or brother might have thought of this; for it seems } bring pure and beautiful thoughts. When novelty one especially suited to a woman's nature, and its and jealousy shall havo ceased to excite envy and object is the garments she herself exclusively wears. suspicion among those who would keep our sex from Perhaps man will some time resign to the more honest independence, a wide sphere of employment graceful and gentle sex an occupation so delicate will be opened by this and similar institutions to and fanciful, and one every way befitting them as educated, intelligent women; for surely, if English an employment ; for, by a quick and vivid fancy, manufacturers are not content to be under the con. joined to a delicate and sensitive touch, woman ap- { trol of foreign influence, our own countrymen can pears formed, with proper education, to excel in this never be. art. And I believe, generally speaking, with the }




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

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 as. serts a general fact; 60 we, without irrererence, may qualify, describe, and illustrate it.

A great inspiration makes a great poet; a com. mon sized one a common kind of a poet; and a small one a proportionately small poet. But when inspi. ration 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 }

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 daught 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'or,
To sleep where billows roll no more.


"Tis sweet to sleep at glory's call,

ing that he would not weep if he could not enjoy "Tis sweet upon her field to fall;

such sweet slumbers, and then he would have as. But sweeter for his sleep shall be

signed the reason by thus delicately hinting his Who falls defending Liberty!

preference This brought him to the point where he wished to

Far sweetest is the drunkard's sleep, introduce his ludicrous idea, and render the change

When he falls into a hogshead deep! from the sublime sudden and irresistible. But, like the natural life to which we have compared it, his

The moral of our story, 0 ye unripened twigs of inspiration had spent its force, and no exertion of inspiration ! is--whittle your arrow down to a point, his could bring it back to finish its work. The re that it may not rebound and pierce the heart of him sult was inevitable. There was a great falling off } who gives it flight. 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 RECEIPT FOR A FASHIONABLE NOVEL. ceded and followed it, while the fourth was decidedly plain. But go it must, and go it did ; for, though

Take your hero and heroine and put them on tu the mirthful inspiration of our poet had passed

simmer, taking care they do not boil over during away, the root remained.

the first Volume. In the next week's edition of the “ Tattleville Be sure to throw in a sufficient quantity of Dukes Gazette,” the editor inserted, “If the author of

and Duchesses, and season plentifully with Al' 'Tis Sweet to Sleep' will call at this office, we will

macks, the Opera, and Devonshire House. Some show him something that may be for his interest to

literary celebrities might be added, but they must

not be too pungent. In due time, the young sprig of a rhymer paid }

Put to these a pound and a half of love, an ounce his respects to that, to him, important personage,

{ of jealousy, and three or four drops of morality, just who immediately produced his communication, and to give it a consistence; but be careful not to put too inquired the meaning of the concluding verse.

much of the latter, or it might turn out heavy. To “I meant to raise a laugh," he replied, “ by the

prevent this, sprinkle it over with plenty of small oddity of the idea, and the sudden change from the

talk, (if you can procure any wit, so much the sublime to the ridiculous."

better,) and lard it well with quotations, French “I suppose it is original ?" observed the editor,

phrases and incidents, which need have nothing to inquiringly, coming at once, and not very guarded

do with the main story. You may flavor with a ly, to the point.

little sentiment, but take care it is not too romantic, “ Certainly, sir, certainly," replied the other, with

or poetical, or the whole might ferment. A spice a confiding frankness that put his well-founded sus- of impropriety, and a crime or two, if well glazed picions to flight.

over, would be an improvement as a sauce piquant. “I thought I had read a poem very much like it,

After having well stirred and strained them, you somewhere,” continued the editor, evasively, evi

may pour all the personages into a country seat, or dently wishing to turn the subject as quickly and as }

park, and leave the ingredients to work together lightly as possible, now that he saw his error. “I

during the second volume. Be sure you drop in a will send it to you, if I can find it.”

country ball, an election, private theatricals, and "I shall be happy to see it,” returned the bard;

moonlight walks in plenty. You should then begin “ for, if there is a similarity, it must be accidental.”

to consider how you mean it to turn out, and let the And, after agreeing to a compromise, which was no

plot thicken. If it be to end well, and all to be thing less than the decapitation of the child of his

cleared up like a calves-foot jelly, the most approved brains, he received the assurance that its remains

method is for the hero and heroine to meet in the should be attended to, and took his leave. “Bold

first volume, quarrel in the second, and marry in

the third. tactics for me," he exclaimed, as he merrily plodded

But if the other plan, more like an Italhomeward. “Had I not faced the enemy, he would

ian cream, be adopted, your heroine should marry have taken me for a cowardly thief.” Then he re

towards the end of the first volume, fall in love in

the second, and elope in the third. You may eithes peated the suspicious verse

kill her or not, as it suits you. “For sleeps like these we 'll shed no tear;

Having determined this point, spin your novel out, Far sweetest is the drunkard's bier,

and strain it to the utmost, then butter the dish When he tumbles, because of his glasses,

well with flattery of popular authors, garnish the Into a hogshead of molasses !"

heads of the chapters with German and Italian The intended ideas of which, bad not his inspira- mottoes, and it will be sure to turn out to your tion failed bim, he would have conveyed by rhym- } wishes.



SONG. BY WILLIAM E. GILMORE. THE hearth was piled with glowing ooals,

Diffusing warmth and ruddy light; Alone, with ANNIE in my arms,

Oh, I was happy yester-night. i

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 sweet

ness fills; A thousand beauties greet the eye, and melodies the earNature puts on her loveliest face, and all her charms ap

pear. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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; IIe loves to lift his heart in prayer, and raise his voice in

praise: The quiet bours of opening day are to devotion givenHe with the lark doth soar aloft, and converse hold with




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!

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 heaven

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

ward 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 ap

plaud, 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.

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, bad 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.


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



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 window.

pane, 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 th:y 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.

Another form has vanished, there's another vacant chair,
Another bond is shattered, and mute the soul's despair.
No human music lingers, no earthly sound is heard;
But soon within that silent room again the air is stirred.
Again that word of comfort, and low the mourners bow,
A still small voice from Heaven is sweetly speaking pow.
The fearful storm is over, the whirlwind and the strife,
And with a calm attention they hear the words of life:
“Why do ye mourn in sorrow a weary one at rest?
Why Feep in bitter sadness a careworn spirit blest?"

This scene is now departing; the present comes in sight,
Its trials and its blessings, its shadows and its light.
The quiet, homely comforts which now I highly prize,
Were once esteemed as meaner thingsworth nothing in

my eyes. Here I must pause; old memories, the past, its joys and

woes, Have gone, and present scenes have brought the pageant

to its close. I may not dream the future when reality is here, Its sober prose forbiddeth all visions to appear


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

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

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

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



We thank thee, 0 our Father! for the memories of the past; Thanks for that life so good and true, and loving to the last; Thanks for those hallowed words of faith from our beloved

given, Ere Thou, in "loving kindness," called her spirit home to


Dear mother! from thy spirit may an influence sweet de

scend, To hover round our pathway, and its blessed presence lend: To strengthen and turn heavenward the yearnings of the

soul, That, like an ever-gushing rill, through its deep fountains


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

gloomAnd hopeful thoughts are wakened within each mourning >

breast, As come the words of comfort: “The dead in Christ are


To comfort and support us, 'midst the anguish and the tears That have been ours-that may be ours, through long and

weary years; 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, wel

come smile!

Again the pageant moveth; another scene is here,
And gay and mirthful parties of youthful forms appear;
And music sweetly soundeth, in measures quick and free,
From chords of art's invention and childhood's laugh of

glee. Tumultuous is the transport that fills the happy throng The fire gleams bright, and quickly the shadows move

along. I fain would stop this picture; but it is passing nowAnother view appeareth, and 'neath its spell I bow.


'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 ball;
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.

Again a sombre shadow across the scene is thrown,
Again deep silence resteth within that room alone.
I cannot tell the conflict which moves that household train, }
The deep, unspoken sorrow, the bitter grief and pain

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