I HAVE always been fond of bijouterie. I had a pleasure in such articles, before any associations could possibly arise as to their value. My steps were sooner stayed by a jeweller's exhibition, than by the frost and net work of the confectioner. Since I have sent the wings of my mind abroad, the desire and love for these familar treasures has increased. I am, more especially, attached to rings. They lead my thoughts homeward. I also fancy I can trace the character of a na

tion, and the foibles and pursuits of an individual, from the fashioning and tracery of the baubles. The broad seal-hoop of the Norman Baron and British Knight, upon which may be carved a quaint emblem encircled by a quainter legend, causes me to draw out the gonfalonier, with all the panoply of 'holy' warfare. I see the ring pressed firmly against the garniture of the sword of a Noble, as he shouts his battle-cry and puts the Paynim on his best defence. I enter the oracle of his tent; observe him tie the ribband round a letter, directed to the right noble and most sweete ladye Eleanour;' and, I scent the perfume of the wax as it takes the impress of the ring. The broad band with a squared ruby, carries me to the Sultan of the spicy land. Unshorn of nature's gifts, enchained in pearls, and cooled by the waving of the plume of the peacock, the monarch rests upon his throne. Men of larger mould and finer form, bow their foreheads to the earth; as if he were ready to cut off their very being. Phalanx upon phalanx, in all the blazonry of eastern attire, girdle in the olympus of the chief. The maid of the soul-beaming-eye peeps from the tracery of the silken curtains; while colors are so blended, that one can fancy rainbows to have rested upon the group. A Satrap receives the ruby from the enthroned one. He mounts the beautiful Arabian, which mocks the eagle's pinions. He is the herald to an ally. The standard is to be unfurled against the uncircumcised; and then must flow a hue much brighter than the ruby! Who cannot call up the groan of the table before the repast and the merriment which sets it in a roar afterwards, when he remembers an alderman's thumb ring? Every guest, save one, is a Falstaff; and that one must be a Yorick. But I need not go round the world to pick up rings. I have several in my cabinet, and the question at this moment is, whether the wearing of a ring be right and politic?

I, first of all, deny any effeminacy in the matter. If I am to be at issue, as to this, I will leave my declaration in the hands of Henry Pelham. Well then; in my richer days-not my better days, gentle reader-I wore rings. In my present time of weary bones, I display a hoop of gold.

A jewelled ring is of value to a monied man, when he is travelling. The landlord of the hotel, like a herring which looks at the red-cloth and passes over the hook, is caught in his memory. He recollects;

yes, he is sure there is one saddle of venison left;' and the landlady (her act of marrying proves her respect for the circle of rich metal) is positive, the best chamber is untenanted.' They do not, it is true, forget to make out a bill:-go to: the man could afford to pay. And is it not a triumph over human nature, when a little finger has accomplished what disposition might not have performed? Suppose the good easy man to be ugly. Look at him in a party. I confess he reverses the situation of Moore's Irish lady; but then he comes off with equal advantage.

while his bright gold ring is his only charmme.' We sing of the smile which lighted her safely; and we observe, how the carbuncle is protected by the blaze of his diamond. The fair ones, the next day, cannot, for the life of them, remember Mr. Z's. countenance: but, 'what a beautiful ring he wore!'

I carry a ring now I am woe-begone. We pay more taxes than we think for; and it is a question yet to be asked, how far the poor man who garnishes his finger, does not take something from his porridge. The other day, my hair carried a little of the fretful porcupine. I stopped before the door of the perruquier. The shop had a two-tailed appearance. I could not determine whether I should have to pay one. shilling or two. I determined to keep my ring out of sight. The forceps had walked round my organ of destructiveness; spoken to my ears; and were within a hair of my forclock. This tress, as I do not carry so much on my head as Dobbin my thill horse' has on his tail, I am jealous of having touched. I reserve it for Time. In an instant, my arm was up to protect my frontlet. The knight of the cologne bottle caught a glimpse of my sword-hand. A profound salam was the accompaniment to a sotto-voce cry of, two shillings, if you please, sir.' But this ornament, my ring, once saved my life. A boat, in which my person had the misfortune to count one, upset where the depth of water would have satisfied a pearl diver of Naples. If a drowning man will cling to a straw, he will, of course, embrace the keel of a vessel. All hands, to use a vulgarism, held on. Assistance came. Here, take this gentleman out, first; him, with a ring on his hand.' I had to pay but, if my ornament had not been a letter of credit, I must have satisfied a heavier debt.

There is, of course, a style to be thought of in a golden hoop. A mulatto wears a something, nothing; and my umbrella carries a ring. "Tis idle to draw comparisons. The French go beyond poetry in such matters. Think of what you would give to your friend wear such a ring yourself. And, after all, this is the most beautiful gift which can be presented to a valued acquaintance. A book, even a Souvenir, must be sometimes put aside. Flowers are only fitted for a ball-night's knowledge; while pictures say too boldly, remember me.' The rings in my possession are powerful monitors. I want not Banquo's glass. I ask not for a gallery and the touch beyond the reach of art. The thread of light upon the circles, conjures up more figures and scenes than my brain can bear or mine eyes can weep over; and the very givers of the ornaments seem to fill the chairs which are, at this moment, scarcely shadowed forth in my quiet room.

I have a ring with heavy tracery around it. A friend, a worldly friend, presented it. Some years after I had received the gift, I did him an act for which he ought to have called me a brother. I ran the risk of harassing his feelings, by explaining to his father the brink of ruin upon which the son stood. I offered to be his sword and buckler against the machinations of money-changers. The youth challenged me to fight: he is now a wanderer. He was the pride of his family and the best blood of the best nobles of the reign of Elizabeth

ran in his veins. The pride of his family centered in him. His father is dead. His household gods are shivered; he is a wanderer in a foreign land. I pity him from my very soul. Weakness, the weakness of good nature was his fault: he has to bear it as a vice.

I have a ring my mother gave me on her death-bed. I fancy it is a spell, a charm to me. I feel as if some more dreadful calamity than I have ever suffered would befall me, if I were to lose it. I would not part from this memorial, though poverty were to cast me upon the stones of the street. I keep it ever on my hand I will have it there in my dying hour. I hope it will not be taken from thence when I am lifted into my coffin. New York.

C. E.

THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH.

THERE fell no rain on Israel. The sad trees
Reft of their coronals, and the crisp vines,
And flowers whose dewless bosoms sought the dust,
Mourn'd the long drought. The miserable herds
Pin'd on, and perish'd 'mid the scorching fields,
And near the vanish'd fountains where they us'd
Freely to slake their thirst, the moaning flocks
Laid their parch'd mouths, and died.
A holy man

Who saw high visions of unutter'd things,
Dwelt in deep-musing solitude apart

Upon the banks of Cherith. Dark wing'd birds
Intractable and fierce, were strangely mov'd
To shun the hoarse cries of their callow brood,
And night and morning lay their gather'd spoils
Down at his feet. So, of the brook he drank,
Till pitiless suns exhaled that slender rill
Which singing, us'd to glide to Jordan's breast.
Then, warn'd of God, he rose and went his way
Unto the coast of Zidon. Near the gates

Of Zarephath, he mark'd a lowly cell

Where a pale, drooping widow, in the depth
Of desolate and hopeless poverty,

Prepar'd the last, scant morsel for her son,
That he might eat and die.

Who rul'd the ravens, wrought within her heart, I cannot say, but to the stranger's hand

She gave the bread. Then, round the famish'd boy
Clasping her wither'd arms, she strain'd him close
To her wan bosom, while his hollow eye

Wondering and wishfully regarded her
With ill-subdued reproach.

A blessing fell

From the majestic guest, and every morn
The empty store which she had wept at eve,
Mysteriously replenish'd, woke the joy

That ancient Israel felt, when round their camp
The manna lay like dew. Thus many days
They fed, and the poor famine-stricken boy
Look'd up with a clear eye, while vigorous health
Flush'd with unwonted crimson his pure cheek,
And bade the fair flesh o'er his wasted limbs
Come like a garment. The lone widow mus'd
On her chang'd lot, yet to Jehovah's name
Gave not the praise, but when the silent moon
Mov'd forth all radiant to her star-girt throne,
Utter'd a heathen's gratitude, and hail'd
In the deep chorus of Zidonian song

"Astarte' queen of Heaven!"

But then there came

A day of woe. That gentle boy, in whom

His mother liv'd, for whom alone she deem'd
Time's weary heritage a blessing, died.

-Wildly the tides of passionate grief broke forth,
And on the prophet of the Lord, her lip
Call'd with indignant frenzy. So he came
And from her bosom took the breathless clay,
And bore it to his chamber. There he knelt

In supplication, that the dead might live.
-He rose, and look'd upon the child. His cheek
Of marble meekly on the pillow lay,
While round his polish'd forehead, the bright curls
Cluster'd redundantly. So sweely slept
Beauty and innocence in death's embrace,
It seem'd a mournful thing to waken them.
-Another prayer arose-and he, whose faith
Had power o'er Nature's elements, to seal
The dripping cloud, to wield the lightning's dart,
And soon, from Death escaping, was to soar
On car of flame up to the throne of God,
Long, long, with laboring breast, and lifted eyes
Solicited in anguish. O'er the dead
Once more the prophet bent. A rigor seem'd
To settle on those features, and the hand