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wardly. There are a great many exogenous plants in the garden of the literature of today.

• Do you know that very delightful book, Nugæ Criticæ ; or, Papers written at the Sea-Side,' by SHIRLEY? Of course — - I wish that every body knew it. Well, if you will turn to page two hundred and eighty-four of that most naturally wooing and winning collection of recent essays and to my taste no essayist of the day equals 'SHIRLEY'- you will find the following verse: To Light,' from COWLEY:

'FIRST-BORN of Chaos, who so fair didst come
From the old Negro's darksome womb;
Which when it saw the lovely child,

The melancholy mass put on kind looks and smiled.' “This,' says SHIRLEY, 'is very lamentable. We can see at a glance that the man who wrote these lines was not in earnest, that he was not engrossed by his subject, that he did not care whether he spoke the truth or lied, that he was only trying how dexter-/ ous and ingenious he could be; and that in consequence, wanting tact, restraint, and imaginative fervor, he made an idiot of himself, and soiled and degraded his subject.'

There - I feel easier now that I have shown that one good man and true is with me, and one who never writes on a subject on which he is not engrossed.' Let me beg of all our young writers, who have not been vulgarized by second-rate French novels, and poisoned by the snobbishness of French chic and smartness, to follow SHIRLEY's example, and if possible avoid the risk of earning such an epitaph as:

He wrote equally well on all subjects.'

* Yours truly,


Our ever welcome and genial QUONDAM gives us this month a pleasantly rhymed version of a tale which LESLIE the artist was fond of telling, and which will be 'good for a laugh' to all time:

Experimentum Maris, or The Court-Nabal.

O NAVIS ! referent in mare te novi
Fluctus. O quid agis ? '-- HORATIUS.


A rope too short will answer with a splice;
Too long a one surpasses my device. -JACK TAR.

'Twas a long time ago, I ken
No steamers crossed the Atlantic then;
But gallant packet-ships were thought
Old Ocean's conquest to have wrought;
And nothing sure could ever beat
The liners of the Yankee fleet.
The white-winged carriers which flew,
Thoughtless of paddle-wheel or screw,
Through storm and sun-shine, hot or cool,
Between New-York and Liverpool.
And London, too, its packets claimed,
Perhaps than Liverpool's more famed.
There were some brave old captains then,
Bold sailors and true gentlemen.
The memory of the pleasant trips
Made ‘lang-syne' in those gallant ships,
Revives again their social mirth and glee,
Their songs, rich stories, jokes and repartee.

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But they are gone! -- those days and captains, too
Whom it was joy to greet and pain to bid adieu.

But I must leave them in their glory,

And hurry on to tell my story.
A Yankee girl, then, had been sent
To schoot upon the continent.
And when she nothing more could learn,
Her friends, desiring her return,
Wrote that she should at once repair
To good old Captain MORGAN's care,
Who knew her father, and would be
Her guardian and good company,
To London, then, she made her way,
Where his fine packet-ship now lay.
She was a comely lass, 't is said,
And more, exceedingly well-bred
In all the female arts and graces
Romances, poetry and laces -
In all accomplishments complete;
Yet she was modest and discreet.
Sometimes, indeed - so much she knew
With learned men you'd think her 'blue;'
While with a gay and faster set,
You'd fancy her a smart coquette.
But so much of the world she'd seen,
That no one ever thought her 'green.'
In music, too, her skill was such,
That few surpassed her voice or touch ;
And then, withal, as full of fun
As is of light and heat the sun!
Her father, who lived in the city,
Was quite as rich as she was pretty ;
And as she was' an only daughter,
No wonder there were many sought her.
How proud the Captain well might be
Of her, his brilliant protegée!
And all the passengers on board
(The gentlemen, I mean) adored
Their fair and joyous young ship-mate,
Who bore the saucy name of KĀTE.
But among those who were thus gladdened,
Three youthful beaux were fairly maddened,
And swore life was n't worth a cent
Unless with her it could be spent !

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All were agreeable, vastly so,
Yet she could take but one, you know,
And vainly sought how to discover
Which might be the sincerest lover.
After much thinking, none the wiser,
She asked the Captain to advise her.
He ever since on board they came,
Had been amused to watch the game,
And now that it had reached a crisis,
She longs to know what his advice is.
So, with a very modest grace,
At once she plainly states the case.
A ship so well he understood,
He might help her, too, if he would.
A sailor thinks his ship half-human,
And calls it'she,' as if a woman.
She ventured once to ask the mate
(Rude fellow - quite a reprobate !)
If he the reason why could state.
He answered, as he scratched his skull,
• The 'rigging costs more than the bull;
A better still, the best of all,
Is given by the Apostle Paul,

Who, with all trials forced to wrestle,
Says woman is a weaker vessel.
And he (most tried of woman born,
Unless 't was JOB) called her the Thorn.'
Though he don't say he was hen-pecked,
Yet we all know that he was wrecked-
And I're no doubt about the cause
His wife the unlucky vessel was!"

Answered – not silenced – (woman-like!) He found her guns he couldn't spike. (He who do n't know, had better try; And learn that she must speak or die!'), This was her pertinent reply: Oh! man's conceit, how very droll! Why, e'en your ship you can't control ! You know the ropes, the sails, the hull, And when to slack and when to pull ; When sail to spread, and when to reef; But yet, according to my belief, In spite of all your boasted skill, The wind blows wherésoe'er it will, And oft the shrewdest plan defeats Of wisest men and bravest fleets. Until the wind you can subdue, Woman 's more than a match for you!' She left the mate somewhat perplext; But I am wandering from my text. I was just going to relate The Captain's answer to Miss Kate:

'You want me, then,' said he, 'to test
Which of three suitors loves you best!
If that is all there is to do,
The matter I 'll soon fix for you.
Trust me, I will not see you harmed,
And as just now we are becalmed,

like fun, suppose that I
The hydropathic treatment' try!
Go to your state-room and prepare,
You'll find a life-preserver there,
Which you so deftly can arrange
That no one will perceive the change.
And, without making an ado,
A boat shall be all ready, too,
On the ship's other side to save
My darling from a watery grave.
Then come on deck: I will be there,
Where your three lovers smoking are,
And draw them to the very spot
Best suited to perform our plot.
Then boldly jump into the sea;
And he who first springs after thee,
Will be the man of all the rest,
You may be sure, who loves you best!'

Kate was delighted ! - off she ran
To carry out the Captain's plan ;
And soon on deck again was seen
The merriest of the group, I ween.
Good humor's gay, enlivening banter
Made Time ride off upon a canter;
Although the ship droned lazily
Upon the quiet, sluggish sea.
When, in a moment apropos,
The experiment to undergo,
KATE, like the brave Lord ULLEN's daughter,
Sprang from the ship into the water !

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In a

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. Dear reader, let it be ever borne in mind that whoever in these times writes aught, though it be a mere paragraph, which encourages others to act directly or indirectly in the great war-cause, does a good act which will be remembered in days to come. serious struggle, when it is the duty of every one to cast about and see wherein he or she may act a full share, the influence which may be brought to bear through the press should not be neglected. Did you, dear reader, for instance ever reflect horo far a printed word goes ? You know not, no one knows; it is beyond all surmise or calculation. Who shall say how far the simplest thought may vibrate through the eternity of humanity? It wends its way here and there; some one is sure to love it, some one will be more deeply moved than you yourself were in writing it; your simple appeal to do something for the good cause will always exist a monument to the kind heart and zeal of the one who raised it. Write, friends -you who can

tell the world what is doing in your homecircle for the war ; let us know that you have fought and served, given and prayed, for God's own good cause. Let the world know that the world is ever awake ; that there is no let or hindrance; that we are determined, and that the fighting and resisting power of the North, like that of Prince Arthur of Little Britain, that moste brave knyghte and stalwarte warrior,' increases the more the longer it is called into action. And wishing thus that all who do not fight would work or write, we cheerfully find place for the following most kindly iletter from ABBIE :

March 3d, 1862 "A NEW Editor in the time-honored chair of the KNICKERBOCKER. Just that bare annunciamento and nothing more, might startle one, but on looking closely and finding there the veritable SLOPER, he who was so associated with its occupant heretofore, we are quite content. Strange, wild days have come upon the land, o beloved of the readers of Maga ! since a couple of twelvemonths gone, our country at peace, I wrote verses for the KNICKERBOCKER. How dark the cloud fell; you, who leaned above the storm from your watch-tower of the nation, know full well. And now it seems lifting. Tell us not, 0 watchman! of the night, but sing us prophetic pæans of the morning.

• Many idlers, rhymers and dreamers have in these days become workers. Some of the throng, brave and true, are shouldering muskets and learning the use of steel in a form quite different from the pen, and whose mission is, to point truths rather than sentences. Others and we have been not legs in earnest have fought, all unused though our fingers were to such weapons, with knitting-needles and quiltingframes. Only a woman's work — weak hands and willing hearts. Yet into the gray stockings have been knitted tears that made solemn responses to silent prayers; tears whose falling stifled the flames of selfish, personal wishes ; tears that nourished the blossom of brave hopes for the right. And in this hour wherein I sit and write, the first flush of victory over, the public pallor which speaks of fearful suffering is brightened a little by such simple comforts as woman's hand has gathered.

May I add to the touching story you gave in your February number, one or two Western incidents of woman's devotion ? They possess, I think, almost an

an equal signifi

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cance :

· A soliciting-committee in this newly-settled country, came in their circuit to a lonely shanty, whose exterior gave little promise of help from within ; but, conseious of that

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