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“ She did all the house-work, and in addition took care of the cow and poultry,occasionally venturing into the field of veterinary practice, and administering lamp-oil to the cock, when she thought he crowed hoarsely. She had on her forehead what is sometimes denominated a widow's peak,'—that is to say, her hair grew down to a point in the middle; and on Sundays she appeared at church in a blue poplin gown, with a large pink bow on what she called the congregation side of her bonnet. Her mind was strong, like her person ; her disposition not sweet, but, as is sometimes said of apples by way of recommendation, a pleasant sour.”

It happened that, in the progress of human events, and quite in ac·cordance with natural laws, Miss Sally Manchester “ fell in love;" in consequence of which fall she frequently expressed her intention of retiring from the kitchen and chambers of her mistress, and taking ùnto herself a kitchen and chamber of her own, together with one itinerant dentist, “who, in filling her teeth with amalgam, had seized the opportunity to fill a soft place in her heart with something still more dangerous and mercurial,” and who had promised to share, at some future time, her“ bed and board,” according to law. But this itinerant dentist was so itinerant that the wedding-day, although it had often been agreed upon, could never be brought near enough to save it from postponements. One day she received the following letter froni her dental lover. It is one of the best hits in the book. It is just such a letter as you wrote, on a similar occasion, if ever you were involved in amorous entanglements ; as, we warrant, every other man in college is, or has been ! And if you never have been in such delirious scrapes, we advise you to study this letter, for it will be of very especial use to you as a model when your time comes, which is sure to come, sooner or later, according to the infallible Doctrine of Chances.

" It is with pleasure, Miss Manchester, I sit down to write you a few lines. I es. teem you as highly as ever, but Providence has seemed to order and direct my thoughts and affections to another,--one in my own neighborhood. It was rather unexpected to me. Miss Manchester, I suppose you are well aware that we, as professed Chris tians, ought to be resigned to our lot in this world. May God assist you, so that we may be prepared to join the great company in heaven. Your answer would be very desirable. I respect your virtue, and regard you as a friend.

MARTIN CHERRYFIELD. P. S. The society is generally pretty good here, but the state of religion is quite low.”

At this letter Miss Sally “ curbed in like a stage horse.” She was haughty and proud ; then she became composed and dignified, and requested that “ the man-she scorned to name him—might never again be mentioned in her hearing.”

“ Some women, after a burst of passionate tears, are soft, gentle, affectionate ; & warm and genial air succeeds the rain. Others clear up cold, and are breezy, bleak, and dismal. Of the latter class was Sally Manchester. She became embittered against all men on account of one; and was often heard to say that she thought women were fools to be married, and that, for one, she would not marry any man, let him be who he mighty-not she!”

Miss Sally, never married. Through all the vicissitudes of later years, she resolutely adhered to her resolution. It was of no avail for Mr. Vaughan's man, Silas, to sigh away his soul every evening, VOL. XIV.

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through a keyed bugle. It was of no avail for him to write her letters with his own warm blood,—" going barefooted into the brook to be bitten by leeches, and then using his feet as inkstands." No! Miss Sally will not marry--not she! We admire her spunk.

Turn we now to Lucy, the pretty serving maid, an orphan girl, of dark eyes and Milesian blood, whose impressive fate is sketched with the strongest effect. She disappeared from the village suddenly and mysteriously, and, at the same time, “the Briareus of boots, an ill-looking man," was missing. After a long absence, the poor girl returns, with a heart broken and a brain bewildered. She immediately yields to the delirious influences of a camp-meeting in the neighborhood, and in the midst of the excitement, drowns herself in the river. On the evening of her suicide, two friends are walking the woodlands, near the tents of the enthusiasts. Through the still twilight, and listed from a multitude of voices thrilling with emotion, they hear the awful and ludicrous words of the Millerite song,

“ Don't you hear the Lord a-coming
To the old church-yards,
With a band of music,
With a band of music,

With a band of music,

Sounding through the air ?" The friends hurry away homeward, thinking of the deep tragedy which these deluded people are acting. The tumult fades behind them.

6. They reached the wooden bridge over the river, which the moonlight converted into a river of light. Their footsteps sounded on the planks; they passed without perceiving a. female figure that stood in the shadow below on the brink of the stream, watching wistfully the steady flow of the current. It was Lucy! Her bonnet and shawl were lying at her feet; and when they had passed; she waded far out into the shallow stream, laid herself gently down in its deeper waves, and floated slowly away into the moonIfght, among the golden leaves that were faded and fallen like herself,--among the water lilies, whose fragrant white blossoms had been broken off and polluted long ago. Without a struggle, without a sigh, without a sound, she floated downward, downward, and silently sank into the silent river. Far off, faint, and indistinct, was heard the startling hymn, with its wild and peculiar melody,

“ O, there will be mourning, mourning, mourning, mourning,–

0, there will be mourning, at the judgment seat of Christ !" But we have already rambled too far, and yet have not shown you the half that we intended of this pretty book. We wish that we had room to transfer to these pages some of its pictures of nature, some of its humor, some of its truthful thoughts. But we must allow you to find them when you read the book. You will admire the descriptions of the advent of spring and autumn and winter, and the pastoral sketches here and there made. You will laugh at the school girl's letter, telling, among other village gossip, of Billy Wildermings, who, having played truant, promised his mother that, if she would not whip him, he would experience religion ; and at the “ domestic and resident adorer, whose love for himself, for Miss Vaughan, and for the beautiful, had transformed his name from Hiram A. Hawkins to H. Adolphus

Hawkins,” who kept the village store, and whose bland physiognomy was stamped, as were his linens, “ Soft finish for family use," who, as his sympathetic sister averred, “ spoke blank verse in the bosom of his family." Indeed this Hawkins is a genuine character ; he lives here in college, and he lives in Fairmeadow ; he is very fond of the ladies; he thinks the moon is beautiful ; the author calls him a “perfect ringdove ; and, like the rest of his species, he always walks up to the female, and, bowing his head, swells out his white crop, and utters a very plaintive murmur."

But it is not right to lay aside our pen without telling you that “ Kavanagh,” like every other work of Mr. Longfellow, has a moral. It centers in Churchill, a kind-hearted soul, amiable, and intellectual ; who was, unfortunately, a poet by nature, and, still more unfortunately, a schoolmaster by destiny; who could never learn to say “ No !" who kept his head full of fine plans which he intended to execute to-morrow-to-morrow; always pursuing his “ flighty purpose," but never overtaking it. His good wife considered him “equal to great things," and so he was. But he was too amiably weak to accomplish them. She would gently chide him, then he would seat himself at his table and arrange his papers to begin his work. But the butcher's cart drives up the back yard and he must needs have a chat with the butcher. A traveling agent calls at his house and he must spend the precious hours in gossiping with the traveling agent, to whom he discloses some of his fine projects, which the enterprising itinerant carries away and executes before Churchill is seated again at his papers. A whole leisure afternoon is before him ; but the soft-hearted man gives it away to a romantic academy girl, who wishes him to write a preface to her “ Symphonies of the Soul and other Poems.” Thus he lived from day to day. Each succeeding month finds the same ink in his pen, the same blank sheet upon his table, the same to-morrow in his view. Thus he lived from year to year; constantly allowing the most trivial things to postpone the great designs which he was capable of accomplishing, but had not the resolution to begin!

• Thus he dallied with his thoughts and with all things, and wasted his strength on trifles ; like the lazy sea, that plays with the pebbles on its beach, but under the inspiration of the wind might lift great navies on its outstretched palms, and toss them in the air as playthings.”

There are many Churchills in the world. There are many at our very doors. We meet them every day, and their lives, like his, certainly will be a failure. While they are musing, the fire is burning in other brains. While they are dreaming, others are acting. What they are planning others have already executed. O, man, up, and shake thyself! Let outward circumstances alone! Let accidents, and exigencies alone! Arm thyself with an unconquerable Will,—with a a stern and inflexible Purpose, that shall sway all things as the blast sways the reed:

W. R. B.

A TOWNSEND PRIZE POEM,

BY FRANCIS M. FINCH, ITHACA, NEW YORK.

THE ICEBERG,

A LEGEND OF THE ARCTIC SEAS. · " ALTHOUGH therefore the Deity, who possesses the power of winding and turning, as he pleases, the course of causes which issue from himself, do in fact interpose to alter or intercept effects, which without such interposition would have taken place; yet it is by no means incredible that his Providence, which always rests upon final good, may have made a reserve with respect to the manifestation of his interference, a part of the very plan which he has appointed for our terrestrial existence.”

PALEY.
A BANNER braves the Arctic breeze;
A Sail in the North. A sail o'erleaps the Northern seas,

Where tent of ice and circling zone
With flakes of crimson twilight strewn,
And every curve with radiance crowned,
Like isles of silver, float around.
With stately tread, the crystal throng
March to the billow's mournful song,
Like stars that line the arch of night,
Or phantoms, robed in folds of white,
That guard the felon's turfless tomb

Children of Fancy, Fear, and Gloom.
Floating Ice. Pale warriors, armed and helmed with steel, (1)

In broken column sweep the field;
And Mosques, where Mossem myriads kneel,

Their Arab creed, the sword and shield,
Toss high their turret arms of snow
Where wave and cloud together flow.
Frail barques of ice in slumber rest,
Or lightly leap the billow's crest;
While bending swans, with motion light
And frozen plume and wings of white,
Throw back Cytherea's planet glance,
Like sunbeams from a Templar's lance.
And then, where curves a snowy train

In woven waves of foam and spray,
The lordly Iceberg plows the main,

With golden crown and locks of gray;
His foe, the storm ; his realm, a zone;
The boundless sea his emerald throne:

And o'er the dripping Ocean King
The Aurora Bore- Th’ Aurora bends its arch of fire ; (2)
alis.

Waves in the North a flaming wing,

Or throws to Heaven a golden spire;
While brightly o'er its crescent line
The locks of myriad dancers shine,
And, springing from the Magnet star,

Flies off full many a glowing ray,
Full many a burning beam and bar,

Bathed in a show'r of crimson spray.
All silent is the night! (3) A word,

Night and the

Stars.

A sullen wave, a flying bird,
Would startle from their dreamy rest
The echoes hushed on Nature's breast.
All brilliant is the night! Her throne

An arch of stars. Before it stands
Orion, with his tri-gemmed zone,

And 'round it dance the Pleiad bands,
While, in the North, the silent lyre,
With silver frame and strings of fire,
Sleeps on untuned. With gleaming scale

That burns along the crowded skies,
Like plates that link a warrior's mail,

The Dragon's spiral folds arise ;
And floating near the Eagle's wing
The Swan sails 'round her azure ring.
All cheerless is the night! The Sun
His summer race of fire hath run,
And southward now his chariot steers,
While, like a fading torch, appears
Above the dim horizon's gloom,
The waving of his crimson plume.
And all is damp, and drear, and cold,
The air, the ice, the cheerless wave:
What arm so strong, what heart so bold,

Would dare these banded foes to brave!
What arm ? what heart?—The sailor's arm,
That loves to baffle surge and storm !
The sailor's heart, that laughs at fear,
And only droops when skies are clear !

The Red Horizon.

The “Falcon."

A banner woos the sleeping breeze!
A sail o'erleaps the Northern seas!
As dawn-light threading groves of snow,

While crystals to its cordage cling ;
At eve it floats as currents flow,

And calmly folds its canvass wing. It came from conquering Albion's isle, And many a mingled tear and smile, Hopeful smile and doubtful tear,

On deck, and shroud, and spar were seen
As shore and castle disappear,

And fades the distant island queen.
On to the zone, the crystal zone,
It bounds along and bounds alone!
A bird that skims the wavelet meek,
But tears the surge with iron beak;
A barque that fears not storm or foe,
But leaps to meet the billow's blow!
On! still on! it cleaves the main,

With quivering mast and creaking spar,
With flying rope and tightened chain,

Swift as a Naiad's ocean car.
On! still on !-a panting steed
That flies the spur with lightning speed;
A meteor shaft that rends the night
And leaves behind a line of light !
On! until the Northern isles

Of azure tinted ice and snow
Bar its path with massive piles,

The Voyage.

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