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"Beside his mossy grave, Where cedars fragrant wave,

Clad in her weeds,

She told her beads,

For his soul so true and brave.

"Hot grief allowed no weeping,
Till once, while vigil keeping,
Her vision met
Me, violet

That on the grave lay sleeping.

"As, when the zephyrs blow,
The ice-bound waters flow,
With such kind power
That tiny flower

Released the tide of woe.

"I seemed to her a token Of union still unbroken; The spirit's kiss,

O'er death's abyss,

Love's utterance unspoken."

Thus sang the flower, and as its note

Faded away, yet seemed to float

Around me as I lay,

There came an inward light which showed

All seen creation, as a road

Toward the eternal day.

A pillared aisle, where arches meet,
The walls of the Immortal's seat,
The everlasting shore;
Voices of eloquence sublime,
Fingers pointing toward the time

When time shall be no more.

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THIS department will be a sort of omnium gatherum-a budget of stray facts-odds and ends, picked up in the wanderings of that individual. Here he will ventilate his pet literary theories-denounce the wrongs, real or fancied, which come under his observation, and indulge in the platitudes usual and therefore tolerable in members of his species. Here will be found a record of striking events of the month-State items, sketches, and such fun as is suggested, contributed, discovered, or can be manufactured.

The quantity of the contents of said saddle-bags will be limited only by the capacity of the magazine, and the space left by other articles; the quality will be dependent on the weather-the movements of the world --the enterprise of the people inhabiting the same-the moods, minds, brains of contributors, and somewhat upon whether or no the feelings of the Editor are "at high water mark."

But we will promise to carry our readers over as little waste territory, in quest of news, as possible-if we gossip of European matters, will eschew political prophecies-agree never to call Louis Napoleon a "Sphinx," whatever that may be; nor to reprint Victor Hugo's letters, or any little yarns touching Garibaldi's impecuniosity, or amplitude of shirt-collar; nudity and hirsute fertility of breast; or poetic roll and curve of hat-rim; and positively to refrain from all speculations as to the future course and policy of the Sultan-the tonsorial embellishments and martyrdoms of Victor Emmanuel; or the womanly graces and domestic virtues of the unfortunate Queen of Spain, and her body-guard of belli

The cut at the head of this article was furnished by the Artist of the Irving Literary Union.

cose and wrangling Fenians. These have been done so frequently, and completely, as now to offer no temptations.

Our sketches will be of such literary and public characters as are in sympathy with the masses, and whose lives and writings are of everyday and undoubted interest. Whatever quotations we make without crediting the authors, in plain English, whatever we steal, shall be of the best that "predatory hands can find," in obedience to the peculative spirit which is at once the ruling and the evil genius of conductors of odds-and-ends departments. In sentiment, if not lofty, our fancy will at least be found fastidious, and will ever decline to descend and wade and wander the muddy flat-lands of cant and drivel. As for jokes, stories, and "sich," no one shall be afflicted with the ponderous humor that sank Vanity Fair and the "latter day" Knickerbocker, nor the dreary, ghastly, other-world witticisms of Punch, now in mistaken mercy allowed, as we are informed, to "die of inanition;" nor lastly, and we trust the reader will appreciate our magnanimity, any of Harper's fearful milk stories. Wendell Philips (see or hear "Lost Arts") tells us there are less than fifty original jokes, and these may be resolved down to about two. Be this as it may, after these (two) progenitors of that species of literature, we shall make diligent search, scrutinizing narrowly the lineaments of such of their offspring as come before us, for traces of family likeness-doubtless we shall find them, for doubtless the patriarchal couple, aged but never old, still living, calmly merry, serenely jovial, in that immortality of wit vouchsafed to them and theirs, are somewhere, like the long-lost "Hebrew Children," safe now in the wide, wide world, waiting to be brought from obscurity to Jersey. We must, however, be allowed sometimes to fall back upon that god-send of story tellers, "The Army"—whose marvels will never be old-the theater where may be laid all the scenes elsewhere out of the range of probability—its heroes clad in the investiture of romance, woven by loyal enthusiasm, sacred from comment or criticism. Donning the blue, Munchausen might claim our credence.

APROPOS of the dullness of business, and general hard times, which is the universal theme of the season, comes in a little "Drama in Two Acts," The Drummer and his Employer.

The stagnation of trade has been severely felt by our business men, and even that enterprising class of our fellow creatures known as "drummers or traveling salesmen, despite their almost inexhaustible invention and resources, have been obliged occasionally to yield to the pressure of the times.

One of these gentlemen, who has recently returned from a trip for Brothers & Co., of this city, did not show a very large exhibit of orders to balance the liberal expense account allowed by the firm, and Mr. G., after looking over his return, said:

"Mr. Bland, I am afraid you do not approach the dealers in the right way; I used to be very successful in this line. Now, just suppose me to be Mr. Bigher, of Sellout, Illinois, and show me the way you introduce the house."

Accordingly, Bland stepped out of the counting-room and re-entered, hat in hand, inquiring, "Is Mr. Bigher in ?"

"That is my name,” said Mr. G., urbanely.

66

"My name is Bland, sir, I represent the house of

Brothers &

Co., of New York." (G., in his character of Western merchant, here rose, offered the salesman a chair, and expressed his pleasure at seeing him.)

"I am stopping with Overcharge, at the Stickem House, and have a fine unbroken lot of samples which I should like to show you; think we can offer you some special advantages," &c. And Bland delivered himself of a neat speech in professional style.

"Very well, very well," said G., "I don't see but that you understand the way to get at customers."

"Excuse me, Mr. G.," said Bland; "I am afraid you do not understand the style of Western merchants now; suppose you exchange places with me and we repeat this rehearsal. "

"Certainly," said G., and, picking up his hat, he stepped out. Returning, he found Bland, with his chair tilted back, hat cocked fiercely over his right eye, his heels planted on G.'s polished desk, and a lighted cigar between his teeth.

G. looked a little staggered, but, nevertheless, he commenced: "Is Mr. Bigher in ?"

"Yes, he is," responded Bland, blowing a cloud of pure Connecticut in G.'s eyes; "Who in h―ll are you?"

"I represent the house of

Brothers & Co.," said the astonished

employer, coughing out about a quart of smoke from his throat.

"The blazes you do; are you one of that concern?"

"No, sir, I am not, " said G."

"Well, its d―d lucky for you that you are not, for I've had two drummers to one customer in my store for the last two months, and if I could get hold of one of the blasted fools that send 'em out here at this time, I'm darned if I wouldn't boot him clean out of the town of Sellout."

"That'll do, that'll do, Mr. Bland," said G.; "I have no doubt you did the best you could for the interest of the house. Trade is a little dull."

THERE are those to whom hard times never come--who extract profit from their surroundings always and under all conditions—for instance, as narrated by a guest:

"I called and spent a night with an old acquaintance that I had not seen for many years. He was sexton, and dug graves for those who died in the village. It was a sea-port, and the oldest son of my friend was a sailmaker, while the youngest son kept a small harness shop, mainly for the purpose of accommodating a few farmers who traded at the village. In

the course of the evening, I inquired how the world had used my acquaintance, and whether he managed to make the two ends meet. 'It's hard work,' he said, the "Yard" has been doing nothing—almost-all summer. I never knew a healthier season. It would seem as if no more were going to die. But then,' he added, we rub along in hopes of better times.' The sailmaker remarked, 'All kinds of business is dull; I have not had much more than half work for a month, but I'm in hopes the heavy blow of the last two or three days will send in a few torn sails.' Just at that moment the harnessmaker came in and told his father that Farmer Stubbs's horse had run away and smashed the harness all to pieces. That's a job for you,' said the old man with something like glee, and added, 'Have you heard whether Squire Anderson is likely to live?' 'It is thought,' replied the son, 'that he cannot live beyond a day or two.' 'Well,' said the father, 'I suppose we must all die some time. The squire has got a nice burial lot; only it's a little hard digging; but his folks won't mind paying a little extra.' I only stayed one night with this amiable family. I left by the first train in the morning, deeply impressed with the sentiment of the old saw, 'It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good.""

THE characteristic modesty of the French literati is shown in Le Pays. "Speaking absolutely, God has no need of anybody, but, for the last fourteen centuries he has thought it wise and useful to employ France for the accomplishment of his designs." No wonder Napoleon is anxious about "The Press."

THE Occasion of quite a joke was on this wise:

Mrs. Lucia Gilbert Calhoun, of the Tribune, being caught in a rain storm the other day, entered a well-known phrenological establishment in Broadway to wait for a passing stage. One of the attachés of the concern, thinking the lady from the country, asked her if she wished to have her head examined. "I have no objection," was the reply, "if you can do it quickly;" and, removing her bonnet, she placed herself under the hands of the craniologist. After feeling her head for some time, he said, very oracularly, "Well, madame, if you had only been educated, I think you might have been able to write something." Inasmuch as L. G. C. is considered the most brilliant writer on the Tribune, we leave it to our readers to determine whether the jest is on the journal or the phrenologist.

THE matter of life insurance is one of the wonders of the age. The Wall Street Review has the following of "The Mutual Life Insurance Company of New York:" "This mammoth organization, whose gross total assets now amount to the round sum of twenty millions of dollars, continues upon its unequaled career, outstripping its most envious rivals, and proving to the world that America, young as she is, can still set an example in life insurance, which foreign nations may justly imitate.

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