look after her baggage; and a hundred times I wished her in the arms of Captain Jackson of the Rifle. I bore it all amazingly, however, and take to myself no small credit for having discharged my duty, without losing my patience, or omitting any attention which politeness required. My companion would hardly seem to have deserved this: yet still she was a female, and I had no right to find fault with those little peculiarities of disposition, which I certainly did not admire. Besides, her husband was a captain in the army; and the wife of a gallant officer, who serves his country by land or sea, has high claims upon the chivalry of her country

men.

At last we arrived at Baltimore, and I immediately called a hack, and desired to know where I should have the pleasure of setting down my fair companion. " At the sign of the Anchor, Street, Fell's Point," was the reply. Surprised at nothing after all I had seen, I gave the order, and stepped into the carriage. "Is any part of the Rifle regiment quartered on Fell's Point ?" said I. "I don't know," replied the lady. "Does not your husband belong to that regiment ?" "La! bless you, no; Captain Jackson isn't a soldier." "I have been under a mistake then. I understood that he was a captain in the Rifle." "The Rifleman, sir; he is captain of the Rifleman, a sloop that runs from Baltimore to North Carolina, and brings tar, and turpentine, and such matters. That's the house," continued she, "and, as I live, there's Mr Jackson, up and well!"

The person pointed out was a low, stout built, vulgar man, half intoxicated, with a glazed hat on his head, and a huge quid in his cheek. "How are you, Polly?" said he, as he handed his wife out, and gave her a smack which might have been heard over the street. "Who's that gentleman! eh! a messmate of yours?"

"That's the gentleman that took care of me on the road ?" "The supercargo, eh? Come, Mister, 'light and take something to drink."

I thanked the captain, and ordered the carriage to drive off, fully determined, that, whatever other imprudence I might hereafter be guilty of, I would never again, if I could avoid it, "take charge of a lady."

LINES, NOT BEFORE Published,

Written by BURNS, on the old Churchyard door at Dumfries, on a day of thanksgiving for some victory gained by the British arms.

YE hypocrites! are these your pranks-
To murder folks, and then give thanks ?
Forbear, I say! proceed no further,
For God delights in no such murder.

TO THE MEMORY OF J. G. C. BRAINARD.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.*

GONE to the land of silence-to the shadows of the dead-
With the green turf on thy bosom, and the gray stone at thy head!
Hath thy spirit too departed? Doth it never linger here,
When the dew upon the bending flower is falling like a tear?
When the sunshine lights the green earth like the perfect smile of God,
Or when the moonlight gladdens, or the pale stars look abroad?

Hast thou lost thy pleasant fellowship with the beautiful of Earth,
With the green trees and the quiet streams around thy place of birth?
The wave that wanders sea-ward-the tall, gray hills, whereon
Lingers, as if for sacrifice, the last light of the sun :-

The fair of form-the pure of soul-the eyes that shone, when thou
Wast answering to their smile of love-art thou not with them now?

Thou art sleeping calmly, Brainard-but the fame denied thee when
Thy way was with the multitude-the living tide of men,
Is burning o'er thy sepulchre, a holy light and strong,

And gifted ones are kneeling there, to breathe thy words of song-
The beautiful and pure of soul-the lights of Earth's cold bowers-
Are twining on thy funeral stone a coronal of flowers!

Ay, freely hath the tear been given-and freely hath gone forth
The sigh of grief, that one like thee should pass away from Earth-
Yet those who mourn thee, mourn thee not like those to whom is given.
No soothing hope, no blissful thought of parted friends in Heaven-
They feel that thou wast summon'd to the Christian's high reward,
The everlasting joy of those whose trust is in the Lord.

TO THE MOON.

ART thou pale for weariness

Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless

Among the stars that have a different birth,-
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

THE WANING MOON.

AND like a dying lady, lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapt in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky earth,
A white and shapeless mass.

SHELLEY.

*The above is a tribute from one American poet to the memory of another.

ROTTERDAM.

ROTTERDAM is the birth-place of Desiderius Erasmus, the reviver of learning, and within its magnificent cathedral sleep the patriotic De Wittses. These are the first thoughts which, to the man of letters, occur regarding Rotterdam, yet they are small matters in the eyes of its honest inhabitants, who value their town for its more substantial attractions-its comprehensive canals, its accommodating wharfs, its many-piled stores, and its heavy-sterned argosies. The merchant there is the honourable of the earth. This claim to

distinction is not founded alone on his individual resources or aggrandisement: he has, in most cases, a long line of ancestry to boast of, being himself but the latest link of an unbroken family chain, which reaches back to the brightest ages of the Dutch republic. He is no upstart speculator-no builder of his own fortune. His father and his father's father held the same situation which he holds, and he only continues a business the foundations of which were laid ages before he was born. To this circumstance may be attributed much of that repose and placidity which characterize the Dutch merchant. He has not, as others have, his way to make in the world; his road is carved out for him, his path smoothed; and he is consequently free from that anxiety and bustle which mark his less favoured fellow-traders.

Of all the families of Rotterdam that of the Slows was one of the most ancient, and had from time immemorial possessed a reputable store and wharf near the cathedral of St Lawrence. Its latest descendant was Mynheer Van Double Slow, in whose person the name was like to become extinct. Mynheer had married, it is true, but the only result was a daughter, who could not be supposed to support either the name or the mercantile distinction of the family. This circumstance harassed Mynheer, so far as it was possible for a man of his enviable disposition to be harassed. He loved Agatha, but he lamented that he had no son to continue the honours of his line. In the absence of one, he took under his protection a young man distantly related to him, whom he instructed in all the mysteries of his merchandise. This young man was named Carl Van Speed, and was in every respect worthy of the patronage bestowed on him. As he lived under the same roof with his master, and sat at the same table, he had every opportunity of cultivating an intimacy with the daughter. The consequence was that they fell speedily in love with one another, which was the more remarkable, that nothing could be more natural or appropriate.

Whether the father wished or contemplated this result, no one could gather from his conversation, for more silent and unfathomable than Delphic oracle was Mynheer Van Double Slow. He was, indeed, the most philosophic of Dutch Pythagoreans. Not only was he never known to utter an unnecessary word, but he even refrained from articulating those which were necessary. An expla nation from him was hopeless-the human pyramid! To speak, interfered with the business of his life, which was to smoke. Yet three smokes were all that he required in the day-one, when he rose till breakfast-time-another, from breakfast-time till dinnertime and another, from dinner-time till he went to bed. In bed he was never known to use the meerschaum, except when he happened to be awake!

Agatha, his daughter, bore the same relation to her father that a rainbow does to a cloud. She owed her existence to him, yet was sprightly and beautiful as he was sombre and gross. No maiden of Rotterdam stepped so lightly-laughed so merrily-or held in her bosom so generous a spirit.

"My father loves you, Carl," she said one day to her lover, who was insisting on their speedy union; "I know it from the manner in which he puffs in your face; but it is almost hopeless to expect that he will ever exert himself so far as to approve of our marriage. I sometimes imagine he is on the eve of advising it, but his resolution dies away in the smoke of the pipe. Still, let us give him four weeks of trial longer, and if in that time he says nothing, why I suppose we may-just marry without him."

All the world of Rotterdam visit the tea-gardens once a-week. Parties are there held of every description; for a Dutchman's home is sacred from friendly intrusions, and it is only in public where he displays his hospitality. Mynheer Van Double Slow Iwas not behind the world of Rotterdam. He had a favourite bower in the tea-gardens, where, with his daughter and her lover, he regularly spent his Saturday afternoons. self with his schnaps and meerschaum, Carl fiddle, and Agatha danced like an angel. indicated his satisfaction by a grunt or an on the first week after the resolution of Agatha recorded above, he approached the subject on which the lovers' souls were bent.

While he enjoyed himplayed divinely on the The old man generally extra prolific puff; but

"Carl, my prince," he said, "would you wish to marry?" Carl's heart leapt to his mouth, as he bowed an acquiescent affirmative-but the oracle had spoken, and not another word issued from the lips of Mynheer Van Double Slow!

Next Saturday, Mynheer again enjoyed his meerschaum in his favourite bower-again Carl played divinely on the fiddle-and

again Agatha danced like an angel. Again, also, was Mynheer moved to open his mouth.

"Agatha, my dove," he said "would you?"

Agatha blushed and curtsied an affirmative-but the oracle had spoken, and not another word issued from the lips of Mynheer Van Double Slow!

Another Saturday came with its usual enjoyments, and again did Mynheer open his mouth.

"In that case,” he said, laying down his pipe, "you had better".

He took up his pipe again-lay back in his seat-and sacrificed the sentence in beatific puffs.

The fourth Saturday came.

Carl played more divinely than ever on the fiddle, and Agatha danced with tenfold grace and vigour. Mynheer had at length reached his goal. He opened his mouth, and concluded his last week's sentence.

--"marry one another," he said.

"This morn

"We are married already, father," said Agatha. ing we went to the Cathedral, and took our vows." "That's good children," said Mynheer Van Double Slow, relapsing into his pipe, as of old.

Months have now passed. Mynheer Van Double Slow still spends his Saturday afternoons in the bower, and Carl Van Speed still plays divinely on the fiddle, but Agatha is scarcely so nimble in the dance. People shake their heads, and talk of the march of intellect, which only means that the SPEEDS are likely to supplant the SLOWS.

W.

LINES

ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS.

In the deep blue of eve,

Ere the twinkling of stars had begun,
Or the lark took his leave

Of the skies or the sweet setting sun,

I climb'd to yon heights,

Where the Norman encamp'd him of old,
With his bowmen and knights,

And his banners all burnish'd with gold.