A few months ago I strung together a few thoughts upon this most delightful theme; and interspersed some passages from the poets, and legends from the classics, by way of illustrating those views. A critic of the cui bono class piqued me to write "More about Trees," in order to show that our countrymen had a love, and were fast increasing that affection, for these beautiful creations of God's hand: and the object of the present paper is merely to cite more of those illustrations, for

The French called the Ohio La Belle Riviere; the beautiful river.

more.

What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good night?
'Twas pity nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite !

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read, how soon things have
Their end, tho' ne'er so brave;
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile, they glide
Into the grave!'

There are those who pretend to despise the SycaThis tree is not likely to come to perfection, unless planted upon the banks of rivers. It is not so good a tree for lawn or city as many others. Its rapid growth is in its favor. But the sycamore-haters should see it growing upon the Connecticut river: its noble stems gracefully dipping "its broad green crown" into the waves, and forming a verdant bower, into which you may drive your skiff, and sit like a nested bird, seeing but unseen. Old Herrick has a pretty address to this tree, among his delightful poems.

'TO SYCAMORES.

"I'm sick with love: oh let me lie
Under your shades, to sleep or die!
Either is welcome, so I have
Or here my bed, or here my grave.
Why do ye sigh, and sob, and keep
Time with the tears that I do weep?
Say! have ye sense, and do ye prove
What sympathies there are in love?'

And a modern poet has been inspired by the beauty of such a tree as I have described. He says:

This sycamore, oft musical with bees,

Such tents the patriarchs loved! oh, long unharmed
May all its aged boughs o'ercanopy

The small round basin, which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves.

Here twilight is, and coolness; here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou may'st toil far, and find no second tree.
Drink, pilgrim, here! here rest!'

Coleridge.

'I am the prince of sports, the forest is my fee,
He's not upon the earth who pleasure tastes like me.
The morn no sooner puts her rosy mantle on,
Than from my quiet lodge I instantly am gone,
When the melodious birds, from every bush and brier
Of the wild spacious wastes, make a continual choir.

The mottled meadows then, fresh garnish'd by the sun,
Waft up their spicy sweets, upon the winds that run
In easy ambling course, and softly seem to pace,
That we the longer may their lusciousness embrace.
'I am clad in youthful green, I other colors scorn;
My silken baldric bears my bugle or my horn,
Which setting to my lips, I wind so loud and shrill,
As makes the echoes shout from every neighboring hill;
My dog-hook at my belt, to which my lyam's tied,
My sheaf of arrows by, my wood knife by my side;
My cross-bow in my hand, I by the woodman's art,
Forecast where I may spring the goodly high-palm'd hart.
To view the grazing herds, at sundry times I use,
When by the loftiest head I know my deer to choose,

The same poet has this pretty conceit. Who has And to unherd him then, I gallop o'er the ground, not seen what he so tenderly describes ?

"This little lime-tree bower! in which I've marked
Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze
Hung the transparent foliage: and I watched
Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see
The shadow of the leaf and stem above,
Dappling its sunshine!'

While thinking, in our less genial clime, of such a bower as this, how natural is it for the lover of nature to exclaim, with poor Keats,

"Oh for a beaker full of the warm south,-
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene !
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth!

That I might drink, and leave the world, unseen,
And fade away, into the forest dim!'

Such a 'forest dim' was that of Arden, when the duke kept court, when the melancholy Jaques watched

Upon my well breath'd nag, and cheer my faithful hound.
Sometimes I pitch my toils the deer alive to take,
Sometimes I like the cry the deep-mouth'd kennel make.
Meanwhile the feather'd flocks that the wild forests haunt,
Their sylvan songs to me in cheerful ditties chaunt.
The shades, like ample shields, defend me from the sun,
Through which to cheer my burning brow, the gentle streamlets

run;

No little bubbling brook from any spring that falls,
But on the pebbles play for me his pretty madrigals.
At morn I climb the hills, where wholesome breezes blow,
At noon I seek the vales, and arching shades below;
At evening I again the crystal floods frequent;
In pleasure thus my life continually is spent.
As princes and great lords have palaces, so I
Have in the forests here, for hall and gallery,
The tall and stately woods, which underneath are plain;
The groves my gardens are, the heath and downs again
My wide and spacious walks. Ah! say whate'er you can,
The forester is still your only happy man!'

Adieu! I will yet, ere summer closes, climb more trees, with the Hesperides.

J. F. O.

ON HEALTH.

TO MOTHERS.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

Have we not all of us seen, with pity and regret, some sickly mother, burdened with the cares of her household? Feeling that there were employments which none could discharge as well as herself-modifications of duty, in which the interest of her husband, the welfare of her children, the comfort of her family, were involved duties which she could not depute to another, without loss-she continued to exert herself, above and beyond her strength.

Still her step is languid, and her eye joyless. The "spirit, indeed, is willing, but the flesh is weak." Her little ones observe her dejected manner, and become sad; or, they take advantage of her want of energy, and grow lawless. She, herself, cannot long persist in a course of labor that involves expense of health, with out some mental sympathy. A temper the most amiable, will sometimes become irritable or complaining, when the shrinking nerves require rest, and the demands of toil, and the claims upon painful thought, are perpetual. Efforts, which to one in health, are like dew-drops shaken from the eagle's wing, seem to the invalid like the ascent of the Alps, or like heaping Pelion upon Ossa.

the partner of his joys, is so dispiriting, how much more oppressive is it to those little ones who are by nature allied to gladness. Childhood, whose richest heritage is its innocent joy, must hush its sportive laugh, and repress its merry footstep, as if its plays were sins. Or if the diseased nerves of the mother do not habitually impose such sacrifices, it learns, from nature's promptings, to fashion its manners, or its voice, or its countenance, after the melancholy model of the sufferer whom it loves, and so forfeits its beautiful heritage of young delight.

Those sicknesses to which the most robust are subject, by giving exercise to self-denial and offices of sympa thy, from all the members of a household, are doubtless often blessed as means of improvement, and the messengers which draw more closely the bonds of true affection. But it must be sufficiently obvious, that I allude to that want of constitutional vigor, or of that confirm ed feebleness of habit, which either create inability for those duties which in most parts of our country devolve upon a wife, a mother, and the mistress of a family, or else cause them to be discharged in languor and wretchedness. And I speak of them, that the attention of those who conduct the earliest physical education of females, may be quickened to search how an evil of such magnitude may be obviated.

Mothers, is there any thing we can do to acquire for our daughters, a good constitution? Is there truth in the sentiment sometimes expressed, that our sex are becoming more and more effeminate? Are we as capable of enduring fatigue as were our grand-mothers? Are we as well versed in the details of housekeeping, as able to bear them without inconvenience, as our mothers? Have our daughters as much stamina of

Admitting that a sickly woman has sufficient self control to repel the intrusion of fretfulness, and preserve a subdued equanimity, this, though certainly deserving of praise, is falling short of what she should wish to attain. The meek look of resignation, though it may cost her much to maintain, is not all that a hus-constitution, as much aptitude for domestic duty, as we band wishes, who, coming from the vexed atmosphere of business or ambition, would fain find in his home the smile of cheerfulness, the playful charm of a mind

at ease.

ourselves possess? These questions are not interesting to us simply as individuals. They affect the welfare of the community. For the ability or inability of woman to discharge what the Almighty has committed to her, touches the equilibrium of society, and the hidden springs of existence. Tenderly interested as we are for the health of our offspring, let us devote peculiar attention to that of our daughters. Their delicate frames require more care in order to become vigorous, and are in more danger from the prevalence of fashion. I plead for the little girl, that she may have air and exercise, as well as her brother, and that she may not

Men, prize more than our sex are always aware, the health-beaming countenance, the elastic step, and all those demonstrations of domestic order, in which unbroken activity delights. They love to see a woman equal to her own duties, and performing them with pleasure. They do not like to have the principal theme of domestic conversation a detail of physical ills, or to be expected to question, like a physician, into the variety of symptoms which have supervened since their departure. | be too much blamed, if in her earnest play she happen Or if this may be occasionally done, with a good grace, where ill-health is supposed to be temporary, yet the saddening effects of an enfeebled constitution, cannot always be resisted by him who expected to find in a wife a "yoke-fellow," able to endure the rough roads and sharp ascents of life. A nature possessing great capacities of sympathy and tenderness, may doubtless be softened by the exercise of those capacities. Still, the good gained, is only from the patient, perhaps the christian endurance of a disappointment. But where those capacities do not exist, and where religious principle is absent, the perpetual influence of a sickly and mournful wife, is as a blight on those prospects which allure to matrimony. Folly, moroseness, and lapses into vice, may be often traced to those causes which robe home in gloom.

to tear or soil her apparel. I plead that she be not punished as a romp, if she keenly enjoy those active sports which city gentility proscribes. I plead that the ambition to make her accomplished, do not chain her to the piano, till the spinal column, which should consolidate the frame, starts aside like a broken reed ;— nor bow her over her book, till the vital energy which ought to pervade the whole frame, mounts into the brain, and kindles the death-fever.

Surely we ought to acquaint ourselves with the outlines of the mechanism of this our clay-temple, that we interfere not, through ignorance, with those laws on which its organization depends. Rendered precious, by being the shrine of an undying spirit, our ministrations for its well-being assume an almost fearful importance. Appointed, as the mother is, to guard If to a father the influence of continual ill-health in the harmony of its architecture, to study the arts on

which its symmetry depends, she is forced to perceive how much the mind is affected by the circumstances of its lodgment, and is incited to cherish the mortal for the sake of the immortal.

Does she attach value to the germs of intellect? Let her see that the casket which contains them, be not lightly endangered or carelessly broken. Does she pray for the welfare of the soul? Let her seek the good of its companion, who walks with it to the gates of the grave, and rushes again to its embrace on the morning of the resurrection.

upon her vitals? We know that it is so. Who, that has
tested the omnipotence of fashion, will doubt it? This
is by no means the only sacrifice of health that she
imposes. But it is a prominent one. Let us, who
are mothers, look to it. Fully aware, as we must be,
of the danger of stricture on the lungs and heart, du-
ring their season of development, why should we not
bring up our daughters without any article of dress
which could disorder the seat of vitality?
Our sons
hold themselves erect, without busk, or corset, or frame-
work of whale-bone. Why should not our daughters
also? Did not God make them equally upright? Yes.
But they have "sought out many inventions."

Those who educate the young, should be ever awake
to the evils of compression in the region of the heart
and lungs. A slight ligature there, in the earlier stages
of life, is fraught with danger. To disturb or impede
the laborers who turn the wheels of life, both night and
day, is absurd and ungrateful. Samson was bound
in fetters, and ground in the prison-house, for a while,
but at length he crushed the pillars of the temple, and
the lords of the Philistines perished with him. Nature,
though she may be long in resenting an injury, does
not forget it. Against those who violate her laws, she
often rises as a giant in his might, and when they least
expect it, inflicts a fearful punishment. Fashion seems
long enough to have oppressed and insulted health in
its strong holds. She cannot even prove that she has
rendered the form more graceful, as some equivalent
for her ravages. In ancient Greece, to whom our paint-swer for it before the High Judge?
ers and sculptors still look for the purest models, was
not the form left untortured? the volume of the lungs
allowed free play? the heart permitted, without mana-
cles, to do the great work that the Creator assigned it?
The injuries inflicted by compression of the vital
parts, are too numerous to be readily recounted. Im-
paired digestion, obstructed circulation, pulmonary
disease, and nervous wretchedness, are in their train.
A physician, distinguished by practical knowledge of
the Protean forms of insanity, asserts that he gains
many patients from this cause. Another medical gen-
tleman of eminence, led by philanthropy to investigate
the subject of tight-lacing, has assured the public, that
multitudes aunually die by the severe discipline of busk
and corset. This theory is sustained by collateral
proof, and illustrated by dissections.

Let us educate a race who shall have room to breathe. Let us promise, even in their cradle, that their hearts shall not be pinioned as in a vice, nor their spines bent like a bow, nor their ribs forced into the liver. Doubtless, the husbands and fathers of the next generation will give us thanks.

Let us leave no place in the minds of those whom we educate, for the lunatic sentiment, that the mind's healthful action, and the integrity of the organs on which it operates, are secondary to the vanities of external decoration. If they have received from their Creator a sound mind in a sound body, teach them that they are accountable to Him for both. If they deliberately permit injury to either, how shall they an

It is not sufficient that we, mothers, protect our younger daughters, while immediately under our authority, from such hurtful practices. We should follow them until a principle is formed by which they can protect themselves from the tyranny of fashion. It is true, that no young lady acknowledges herself to be laced too tight. Habits that shun the light, and shelter themselves under subterfuge, are ever the most difficult to eradicate. A part of the energy which is essential to their reformation, must be expended in hunting them from their hiding-places, Though the sufferer from tight-lacing, may not own herself to be uncomfortable, the laborious respiration, the constrained movement, perhaps the curved spine, bring different testimony.

But in these days of diffused knowledge, of heightened education, is it possible that any female can put in jeopardy the enjoyment of health, even the duration of existence, for a circumstance of dress? Will she throw an illusion over those who try to save her? and like the Spartan culprit, conceal the destroyer that feeds

But how shall the mother answer it, in whose hand the soul of her child was laid, as a waxen tablet, if she suffer fashion to cover it with fantastic images, and folly to puff out her feverish breath, melting the lines that wisdom pencilled there, till what heaven would fain have polished for itself, loses the fair impression, and becomes like common earth. Hartford, Conn.

TO A FRIEND AT PARTING.

We part--perhaps to meet no more;
And oft may I, with fond regret,
Recall the scenes we've travelled o'er :
Such scenes the beart can ne'er forget.
Long months--it may be years--will roll;
It may be (who can know the pain
With which that thought weighs down the soul?)
On earth we ne'er shall meet again.

Through distant lands and stranger climes
Our lot 'twill be to wander far,

Yet shall our hearts, like cadenced rhymes-
With friendship for their polar star--
Together flow unjarring on,

Persuading us with siren strain,
How hopes exist, till life be gone,
That we shall haply meet again.

But should such hopes delusive prove,
And ne'er again that joy we know,
While doomed, apart, alone to rove
Through life's uncertain hours of wo;
Then let this last memento be

To

A link in friendship's holy chain,
prove my heart still true to thee,
Although we ne'er shall meet again!

F. G.