purple hand seizes yours, and inflicts upon it a cruel squeeze—perhaps a― Nonsense!

sex.

"DOMESTIC happiness,

Thou only bliss of Paradise that hast survived the fall!
Behold the picture; is it like? like whom ?'-COWPER.

'I CONFESS I have little patience with that class of writers, who, forever prating of the great benefits of woman's mission,' seem to slight or overlook the superior importance of that of the sterner Far be it from me to undervalue the ceaseless cares and labors of maternal love; but do we owe nothing to a father's affection? When the wailing cries of his helpless offspring pierce the dull ear of night,' who is it that turns out in picturesque costume, indifferent to cold or becomingness, and parading the room in majestic sadness, relieves his surcharged feelings by seraphic melody, whistling and trotting? And when, faltering from such continuous marching and counter-marching, and piqued that his impersonation of a wandering Apollo is so coolly received, he softly seats himself upon the edge of a chair; yet all the parent is busy at his heart; and as his practised ear detects the symptoms of a renewed outbreak, he only shoulders his burden with fresh courage, and again trolls forth a favorite lay. I blush for the selfishness of my sex, when I affirm, that no woman would so act under the like circumstances; and indeed nothing but one raised above the weakness of personal vanity could be capable of such heroic sacrifices, such entire abnegation of self. Nor do his labors end here. When sickness invades their mortal frames, it is his hand that holds the nose and forces down the remedy. And as years roll on, and unlovely traits develope themselves, it is his part to lay down the law,' and to entrap the offender. It may be a mournful satisfaction to kiss an erring son, but it is a far higher privilege and duty to whip him. He it is, too, as they gather around the social fireside, who poses them in arithmetic; and as they stumble in their scrambling ascent up the hill of science, treats them to a free and familiar exposition on the doctrine of stupidity, coupled with the candid admission, that their room would be as agreeable as their company.

It is these unbought graces,' these self-denying acts, which he does instinctively, and without asking for any tangible reward, that constitute the charm of man. It is not his exalted intellect, his 'deeds of high emprise,' which win our hearts; but it is that true greatness of soul, by which, overlooking the vast discrepancy which exists in our mutual conditions, he stoops from the elevated atmosphere in which he habitually moves, to accommodate himself to our little feelings and little pursuits.

'SLEEP, image of thy father! sleep, my boy!'-CAMPBELL.

THE world teems with histories of generous and praiseworthy deeds; but I know of no more touching an instance of parental piety than that recorded of a certain husband and father, who never

doffed hose and doublet,' and adjusted himself in his nightly couch, without leaving unenshrined one faithful foot, to rock the cradle of sleeping infancy. The moralist possibly may aver that it was but retributive justice that that particular portion of his mortal frame should suffer which had doubtless often led its owner from the paths of rectitude; still, he who could deliberately, and for the sake of another, and that other a mere wife, expose an uncomplaining member to the risk of rheumatism, or of being frost-bitten, is worthy of the palmiest days of English chivalry, and may well be entitled to the epithet of a second BAYARD.'

I can scarcely conceive a finer subject for the pencil; for in addition to its being highly poetical as a composition, it could not fail to excite an immense moral influence upon the heart.'

'NoT harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,

But musical as is APOLLO's lute.'

A YOUTHFUL friend dilated with much enthusiasm upon her last night's serenade. I smiled pityingly upon her, and would not excite her envy by telling her that many of her married sisters are favored by their liege lords with a nightly solo, similar in character to the trombone, with a little dash of the serpent. Ah! there is no wind-instrument like that of nature's own creating, and no music like that produced by human organs

THINK of the transport of that youthful bride
When first it breaks upon her raptured soul
That she's secured a melodist for life!
First, 't is a gentle puff, a slight preliminary sound
To the grand charge into the Land of Nod.
Stop him who can! Can these be earthly notes?
Heaven's artillery is 'beat, at its own weapons!'

'AND this, ye youthful belles!
This is the end of all your toils and cares!
For this you 've danced-for this you 've sung;
This is that sweet companionship'

That poets sing of, making night hideous!"

But I forbear, nor yet with hand profane

Lay bare the secrets of the prison-house!'

VOL. XXVII.

Nor as a lover loveth, love I thee,

Thou soul of all that 's fair in woman; yet
Where'er thy presence is, there's joy to me,

And absence leaves my life one long regret.

I loved thee ere I knew thee, for youth must love,
And life's first exstacy we ne'er forget;

But manhood knows a passion far above

The brightest dream young Fancy can beget.

We wake from sleep: its glories all depart,

And crownéd Mind dethrones usurping Heart;
Sole monarch then, Mind seeks a royal mate,
To share, to comfort, to confirm its state.
So I awoke, sought, wearied, till in thee
I found the kindred spirit meet for me.

57

W. W. H.

And at this hour a youthful mother sat
Beside the open casement, but her eye
Looked not on nature's freshened loveliness.
She recked not of the gathering twilight's haze,
Nor how the stars were coming out in heaven;

Her heart was all too sad, for at her side,

The one fair child who cheered her hearth and home,
With face averted stood, and eyes that drooped
Beneath her glance, and told in broken words
The story of his grief.

The boy had sinned:

It boots not how, nor wherefore; but his soul
Was burdened with the memory of his fault.
A cloud was on his spirit's happy light,
And ere he sought his pillow, he had come

To breathe it sadly in his mother's ear.

With circling arm she pressed him, and her voice
Was low, yet earnest, as she spoke of ONE
Who cannot look upon iniquity:

Bade him remember how each sinful deed

In heaven is writ, by angels, and knelt down
In the dim star-light with her erring child,
And prayed with all a mother's pleading love,
That GOD would pardon him.

There was no gentle smile to welcome him;
No questioning of all his daily tasks;
No morning salutation, nor the kiss

That pressed his cheek so lovingly, what time
He came to whisper her his fond 'good night.'
There was a new-made grave beside the church,
And she was resting from earth's weariness.

Months wore apace, and that grief-stricken boy Found comfort only where his mother slept. Thither at morn he went, when the pure dew Lay on the grassy mound, and the white rose, That he had planted when the spring was new, Looked fresh and beautiful. There would he sit And talk to her whose ear was strangely closed, And tell her of his loneliness, and pray

That she but once would come to him, but once, And whisper that in heaven she loved him still!

Years faded silently, and the boy grew
To early manhood; but a change had come
O'er the young spirit: at the flower's red heart
Revelled the worm that preyed upon it's bloom.
His home was far away from that low mound
In the green church-yard, and he had forgot
In part the lessons of his infancy.

Evil had been his converse with the world,
And on his soul its foul pollution lay.

One whom he trusted, with a brother's love
Had counselled him to do a daring deed;

Said 't was a thing of nought,' a few brief lines
Traced hastily, that would bring gold for each:
And he had hushed the 'still small voice' within,
And nerved him to the act.

"T was the same

That bent above his couch long years ago:
The same mild eye, with its deep, serious gaze,
Meeting his own so pleadingly. No voice
Came from those silent lips; and yet they spoke
With an archangel's eloquence: My son,
God's eye is ever on thee that was all:
The same low, thrilling words, so tenderly
Breathed in his ear when as a child he sinned;
Fresh o'er his heart his mother's lessons came,
As when at first she spake them, and he flung
The fearful record of his crime away,
And kneeling there in humble penitence,
He prayed in very bitterness of soul
His mother's gentle spirit still might be
The guardian angel that should lead him on
Through the dim mazes of his future way.

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE FARMER'S DICTIONARY: A VOCABULARY OF THE TECHNICAL TERMS recently introduced into
AGRICULTURE AND HORTICULTURE, from various Sciences, etc., with a Compendium of Practical
Farming; taken from the most distinguished European and American Authors. Edited by D. P.
GARDNER, M. D.
pp. 876.
With numerous Illustrations. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

EVERY art or science must of necessity contain a number of specific or technical words which designate implements, processes, theoretical generalization, or in short convey to the instructed an assemblage of ideas. Such terms are universally admitted by the masters of the art, and are comprehensive symbols awakening the same associations, and perfectly intelligible. They are not merely words of general import, common to every form of writing, but specific terms conveying a fund of information. Consider such expressions as Atom Archæus, Eremacausis, or technical phrases, as 'Infallibility of the Church;' how far is the mind conveyed amidst theories and speculations by these centres or nuclei of ideas? By an understanding and practice among men, such terms become instruments of power and condensation; disquisitions, otherwise of interminable verboseness, are condensed into a short compass; and laws expressing concatenations of phenomena have the brevity of a precept. To dispense with such symbols would be to introduce confusion into the realms of knowledge; to withdraw the light of science, and again cast all ideas into primeval chaos. By what means such specific terms have met with universal concurrence, is a remote investigation; they are without question the growth of ages; they betray the intellectual toil of millions; and are to succeeding times the true legacy of preceding minds. Perhaps no history of the acceptance of a system of technical words is so complete as in the case of chemistry, and certainly no system has been so useful in methodizing and advancing science. When the indefinite nature of chemistry before the time of LAVOISEUR is considered, and its present conciseness and transparency, we are at a loss to conceive that all this is the result of mere nomenclature. In one short report before the Institute of France, a science of marvellous perspicacity in its language, of profound research, and already crowded with mature theories, was created from a medley of jargon and speculations. The obscure, by the magic of a system, became luminous; the superstitions of empirics furnished facts to the philosopher. The science which in our day is unrivalled in definite terms was the centre of confusion, before a specific phraseology was invented. For camomel thirty-three words were used, while copper, sulphur and others were known by upward of twenty each. Hence it became impossible, in discoveries, for the author to know whether they were new or already known; and as no system of nomenclature existed, every student