Farmer Applegate, the owner of a considerable tract of land, had two sons, Jonathan and William-or, as they were usually called, Jock and Bill. They were from their childhood of very different disposition. Jock was staid and sober -inclined to industry, and fond of laying up his coppers. Bill was a harum scarum sort of a lad, idle in his habits, peppery in his disposition, and more fond of throwing away his coppers than hoarding them up. While Jock was industriously at work on the farm, Bill would be away paddling in some puddle for frogs, or shooting butterflies through an air-gun.

These different habits and dispositions, followed them to the age of manhood, when their father thought proper to settle them in life. He portioned Jock with a parcel of bleak, barren, stoney, and uneven land, but pretty well supplied with running water. This soil, said he to himself, requires a world of hard labor, and produces little when you have done. But that makes no difference, for Jock will get a living and lay up money, any where. As for Bill, said he, there's no use in giving him any land that requires labor, for he'll never work on it, though it were to keep him from starving. Accordingly Farmer Applegate set off to his son Bill a piece of low flat land, a little to the south of Jock's, which produced cat-tails in abundance, and that without the labor of cultivation,

Cat-tails, in those days, were used as a substitute for feathers, in the preparation of beds. They brought fourpence a pound; and as they found a ready market and cash pay, Farmer Applegate thought, that his son Bill, idle as he was, could hardly fail of making a tolerable livelihood from the production of an article, which required no labor, but the gathering and carrying to market.

But here the old gentleman was mistaken. -Bill thought it quite too great a hardship to pick and sell the cat-tails, even though they grew spontaneously. He purchased therefore a parcel of monkies to do the principal drudgery for him-particularly the gathering and putting into sacks. These monkies, said he, will save me a world of labor. They can pick cat-tails just as well as I-and, for the matter of that, a great deal better, for they are more nimble and active; besides this low swampy land will not injure their health as it does mine. The monkies were accordingly set to work. They were sufficiently nimble and handy; but the difficulty was, to keep them at work, and to make them do their work well. Like all the rest of their race, they were a capricious, versatile, and mischievous set. They would not work, unless some one was constantly watching them; and when they did work, they made such waste as was enough to ruin any body-throwing about the cat-tails, and playing the mischief with their master's property.

In order to keep these troublesome servants at work without being obliged constantly to overlook then in person, Bill procured a stout ourang outang, armed him with a whip, and made him monkey-driver and overseer of the

jacks under his charge. Every thing went at sixes and sevens. While Bill was away fishing and shooting, the monkey-driver, and monkies were playing the devil with his property.

The consequence of his idle habits and his bad management was, that he got deeply in debt, was harrassed with executions, and threatened with bankruptcy. In this difficulty, what does he do? Instead of getting rid of his monkies, and attending to work himself, he petitions his father to grant him a premium, of three farthings per pound, on his cat-tails-alleging that he cannot possibly get a living without this protection to his industry.

"Industry!" exclaimed Farmer Applegate"talk of your industry! Truly, if you do not get a living, it will not be for want of impudence."

Though the Farmer expressed himself in this wise, nevertheless, being a good-natured man, and having the welfare of his children at heart, he granted the proposed premium of three farthings per pound, on all the cat-tails, grown by his son Bill. With this help Bill got along tolerably well for a time; but neither then did he improve his habits, or pay his debts; but on the contrary, he became, if possible, more idle and careless than ever. This protection, said he, is a fine thing-it will keep me in spending money if nothing else.

as

In the mean time Jock was industrious and saving. Though his land produced little, he contrived, by turning his hand to a variety of things, and manufacturing sundry "notions," he called them, to obtain a tolerable livelihood, and to keep clear of debt, though he did not get rich. Among other "notions," s. which he contrived to manufacture, were wooden Jewsharps, which he sold for three halfpence a piece. He went on very contentedly, nor asked any aid from the old gentleman, until Bill had obtained the above-mentioned premium on his cat-tails; when Jock, justly concluding that he had an equal claim to protection, asked and obtained a permium of one farthing on each of the Jewsharps manufactured at his mill.

He now increased his business, enlarged his mill, and with the aid of the farthing premium, began to get forward in the world. Bill, seeing the prosperity of his brother Jock, flew into a terrible passion, declared the premium on Jewsharps a monstrous imposition, and not to be indured. What! said he, shall 1 pay one penny three farthings for a wooden Jewsharp, when I can get an iron one for sixpence? To be sure, the wooden article answers every purpose for my monkies, whose leisure hours must be amused with Jewsharps of some kind or other, to prevent them from being worse employed. But that is neither here nor there it is the principle that I contend against.

Bill now posted forthwith to his father's to request him to take off the premium on Jock's Jews-harps-alleging that it was too bad that Jock should be growing rich by his vile wooden manufacture, while he was growing poor on the more honorable business of raising cat-tails. Farmer Applegate endeavored to reason with him on the injustice of his demand, inasmuch as

Spanish Armoury, the horse Armoury, and of the new small Armoury; the barracks of the soldiers of the garrison, and handsome houses for several officers who reside there. The officers are a Constable, a Lieutenant, and a deputy Lieutenant. The stacks of arms, wax figures of kings, queens, generals, &c. &c. with the regalia of state, sceptres of a long line of kings, and other baubles, with the ordnance, &c. ta ken from the Spanish Armada, curious records &c. are the curiosities shown to visitors. Among these, the eagle of gold, finely engraved, may be mentioned. It holds the holy oil the Kings and Queens of England are annointed with. This Eagle is about nine inches high, and the wings expand about seven inches; the whole weighs about ten ounces. The head of the Eagle screws off about the middle of the neck, which is made hollow, for holding the holy oil, and when the King is annointed by the bishop, the oil is

From the New York Mirror.

83

Written after a ride by the Schuylkill, in October.

WILL LOVE MY LOVE.

I will love my love in the morning,
When the drowsy world is still,-
When the sun is in splendour rising,
And the mist is on the hill;
And I'll tell her, her brow of beauty,
Like the day god's, is bright and fair,
And her fairy form is as sylphid
As the mist that is floating there.
I'll point to the lovely landscapes,
Appeal to the warblers glad,
And ask, if a sigh escapes her,
Oh! why should she be sad'

As she brushes the dew from the cowslip,
And bruises not flower or stem.
I'll tell her the songsters love nature,
And she should be glad like them.
I'll love my love in the noontide,
When, with summer heat opprest,
We sit in her bower of woodbine.
And she sinks on my arm to rest;
And as she smiles in her slumbers,
Or wakes with a gentle start,
I'll say I was there to guard her,
And fold her again to my heart.
And I'll show her the red rose blooming,
In the wilds of its native wood,
And tell her, her lips, when smiling,
Are like to its bursting bud;
That nature is placid and lovely,
And still as the valley and plain;
And I'll bid her to lie on my bosom,
And sleep and smile again.
I'll love my love in the evening,
When the heavens in blue array,
O'erhang the flowery and verdant earth
On the eve of a summer's day;
And I'll tell her the scene of softness,
Which earth receives from sky,

Is nought to the love which my soul returns
To the beam of her bright blue eye.

I'll press her to roam till the moon-beams
Their gentle radiance shed,

And the golden circles are dancing bright
On the streamlet's glassy bed;
And I'll tell her those flowing ringlets,
That in wild luxuriance play
O'er her dimpled cheek and snowy neck,
Are circling and bright as they.

I'll part with my love when the dew-drops

Fall light on the gladsome earth,
And the gentle sigh of the evening breeze
In the aspens has found its birth;

And I'll tell her that Heaven, in its kindness,
Sheds balm on the hearts that love,
And a soft sigh breathed from an innocent breast
• Bears a blessing as from above.

Thine

By Miss Fanny Kemble.

Thou comest not in sober guise,
In mellow cloak of russet clad-
are no melancholy skies,
Nor hueless flowers, pale and sad;
But, like an emperor, triumphing,
With gorgeous robes of Tyrian dyes,
Full flush of fragrant blossoming,
And glowing purple canopies.
How call ye this the season's fall,
That seems the pageant of the year?
Richer and brighter far than all

The pomp that spring and summer wear,
Red falls the westering light of day
On rock and stream and winding shore;
Soft woody banks and granite gray
With amber clouds are curtained o'er;
The wide clear waters sleeping lie
Beneath the evening's wings of gold,
And on their glassy breast the sky
And banks their mingled hues unfold.
Far in the tangled woods, the ground
Is strewn with fallen leaves, that lie
Like crimson carpets all around
Beneath a crimson canopy.

The sloping sun with arrows bright
Pierces the forest's waving maze;
The universe seems wrapt in light,
A floating robe of rosy haze.
Oh Autumn! thou art here a king-
And round thy throne the smiling hours
A thousand fragrant tributes bring,

Of golden fruits and blushing flowers.

Oh! not upon thy fading fields and fells
In such rich garb doth Autumn come to thee,
My home!-but o'er thy mountains and thy dells
His footsteps fall slowly and solemnly.

Nor flower nor bud remaineth there to him,
Save the faint breathing rose, that, round the year,
Its crimson buds and pale soft blossoms dim,
In lowly beauty constantly doth wear.
O'er yellow stubble lands in mantle brown,
He wanders through the wan October ligh
Still as he goeth, slowly stripping down
light:
The garlands green that were the spring's delight

At morn and eve thin silver vapours rise
Around his path: but sometimes at mid-day
He looks around the hills with gentle eyes,
That make the sallow woods and fields seem gay.

Yet something of sad sov'reignty he hath-
A sceptre crowned with berries ruby red,
And the cold sobbing wind bestrews his path
With wither'd leaves, that rustle 'neath his tread.

And round him still, in melancholy state,
Sweet solemn thoughts of death and of decay,
In slow and hushed attendance, ever wait,
Telling how all things fair must pass away.

1

MOTIVES. The following remark of Bayle will remind the reader of Rochefaucault:--" If the motives of most men's services for one another were known, it would appear that the intention to do good has a less share in them than a design to mortify others."

There is one special reason why we sohuld endeavour to make children as happy as possible, which is, that their early youth forms a pleasant or unpleasant back-ground to all their after-life, and is consequently of more importance to them than any other equal portion of time,

are supported by men and women, is to taste an object of pity or ridicule."

a

85

•LETTERS ON NATURAL MAGIC, by Sir David Brewster addressed to Sir Walter Scott. This is the title of the 50th volume of Harper's Family Library, just issued in New York, and certainly a more entertaining philosophical work has never been printed. In former days, we might say till within the present century, philosophy was so beset with technical terms and phrases, that none but the learned dared attempt to fathom its mysteries. How different the case now! All the treasures of knowledge, accumulated for ages, the grand results, are thrown open to the view and comprehension of mankind; children view with admiration, the motions of a watch-they gaze with wonder at the movements of the hands, and listen in sur. prise at the noise of the ticking. Men were but lately children of a larger growth-they looked on and wondered at the results produced by mechanism and science, but understood nothing of the means employed to produce it. A philosopher was considered a magician, and men were content to believe it, because the opportunity was not presented to learn the why and wherefore. Now, by means of books, the watch is opened, and we no longer stare in wild amazement, because the why and wherefore is explained. The most cultivated minds seem willing and gratified to combine their powers, and explain; to simplify and render both intelligible and attractive to ordinary readers, the results of the profoundest sciences. Among the number, Sir David Brewster must take a high rank, for he has made out of what was formerly a dry subject a fund of entertainment and instruction, mingled with so many facts and elucidations, that even a novel reader will be tempted to read and think. No one, after perusing his neat little book, and Sir Walter Scott's De. monology, would ever after believe in witchcraft, and no one can read either without feeling thankful that men of such elevated and improved understandings are willing to turn teachers.

In the present volume, the various kinds of optical illusions are fully explained, and numerous ingenious mechanical contrivances are described, by which the magicians used to puzzle and impose on the ignorant. A very attractive part of the book is that which describes the means employed by the inventor of Maelzell's Automaton Chess Player, to conceal a person within the chest. Wood cuts are given in great numbers, and if it does not settle that puzzling question, it at least shows how it might be played. Babbage's Calculating Machine, one of the great wonders of the mechanical world, is pleasingly described; and if any of our readers wish to frighten themselves with a ghost or two, they have only to buy this book, a little smoke and a magic lantern, to throw themselves into a perfect fit or fidget, as the case may be.

INFLUENCE OF IMAGINATION. A curious proof of the influence of imagination is given in the life of Peter Heaman, a Swede, executed in Edinburgh in 1822. The following are his own words: "One remarkable thin was, one day, as we were mending a sail, it being a very thin one, after laying it upon deck in folds, I took the tar brush and tarred it over in the places which I thought needed to be strengthened. But when we hoisted it up I was astonished to see that the tar I had put upon it represented a gallows, and a man under it, without a head. The head was lying beside. He was complete, body, thighs, legs, arms, and in every shape like a man. Now, I oftentimes made remarks upon it, and repeated them to the others. I always said to them all, you may depend upon it that something will happen. I afterwards took down the sail on a calm day, and sewed a piece of canvas over the figure to cover

Written for the Casket.

TRIBUTE TO THE PAST YEAR.

Thou of the untiring pinion! since thy birth,
How many years have fallen from thy hand,
Like ripe fruit dropping, from the tree to earth,
When autumn changes nature with his wand.
Years are thy presents, and at thy command
They go to mingle with that waveless sea,
Whose boundless waste is undefined by land,
Where all is mystery, save, oh God, to thee!
Where ages buried are; and call'd eternity.

Relentless time! again I hear the knell
Of a grey voyager, to that ocean vast
And shoreless; and its last farewell,
Now faintly mingles with the wintry blast.
Its errand done, thy mighty hand hath cast
It from thee, like some useless thing,
Ever to join the unreturning past:
But a fresh feather, from thy flying wing.
Will soon again the changing season's bring.

But will it bring the hours of pleasure, fled
Like flowers returning to the wood and vale,
When music floats upon the perfum'd gale?
No! they have vanished like some idle tale.
Where have those missing from the fire-side gone?
Will they return when mirth and song prevail ?
The church-yard answers with its added stone,
And the new mound, where grass hath not yet grown!

Death had been busy with the mighty dead,
Before we pass'd the threshold of the year,
A mourning world the tear of sorrow shed
When Scotia's bard reposed upon his bier.
Ages elapse before such men appear,
To shed the light of genius on mankind,
O'er prostrate thrones we trace not his career.
To him belonged the glorious gift of mind,
And few have left so proud a name behind.

Mortality! thy records frail have told
That other worthies too have pass'd away.
Germania's minstrel in his shroud is cold,
The child of Genius, is the foul worms' prey.
And he is now but cold and worthless clay,
Who was the last survivor of those men,
Whose names allied to freedom's natal day,
Requires no aid, historian, from thy pen!
When will the world such patriots have again?

Tears thy attendants were, departed year,
In every land was heard the voice of woe;
The cause was not ambition's wild career,
Man was the victim of a viewless foe,
Whose power the aged and the young laid low.
Of his approach he gave no warning loud,
To cot and palace noiseless would he go;
And quite regardless of the meek, the proud;
At his dread summons prince and peasant bow'd.
Past year, farewell! times's sad but stern decree,
Hath sent thee on an unreturning wave,
To join forever that insatiate sea,

Which is of years, aye ages past, the grave.