unusual request; and when the pen is returned, you are generally informed that you sent "an awful bad pen."

I have been frequently reminded of one of Johnson's humorous sketches. A man returning a broken wheelbarrow to a Quaker with, "Here, I've broke your rotten wheelbarrow usin' on't. I wish you'd get it mended right off, 'cause I want to borrow it again this afternoon;" the Quaker is made to reply, "Friend, it shall be done:" and I wished I possessed more of his spirit.

HOSPITALITY.

Like many other virtues, hospitality is practised in its perfection by the poor. If the rich did their share, how would the woes of this world be lightened! how would the diffusive blessing irradiate a wider and a wider circle, until the vast confines of society would bask in the reviving ray! If every forlorn widow whose heart bleeds over the recollection of past happiness made bitter by contrast with present poverty and sorrow, found a comfortable home in the ample establishment of her rich kinsman; if every young man struggling for a foothold on the slippery soil of life were cheered and aided by the countenance of some neighbor whom fortune had endowed with the power to confer happiness; if the lovely girls, shrinking and delicate, whom we see every day toiling timidly for a mere pittance to sustain frail life and guard the sacred remnant of gentility, were taken by the hand, invited and encouraged, by ladies who pass them by with a cold nod-but where shall we stop in enumerating the cases in which true, genial hospitality, practised by the rich ungrudgingly, without a selfish drawback-in short, practised as the poor practise it would prove a fountain of blessedness, almost an antidote to half the keener miseries under which society groans!

Yes: the poor-and children-understand hospitality after the pure model of Christ and his apostles.

The forms of society are in a high degree inimical to true hospitality. Pride has crushed genuine social feeling out of too many hearts, and the consequence is a cold sterility of intercourse, a soul-stifling ceremoniousness, a sleepless vigilance for self, totally incompatible with that free, flowing, genial intercourse with humanity, so nourishing to all the better feelings. The sacred love of home-that panacea for many of life's ills-suffers with the rest. Few people have homes now

adays. The fine, cheerful, every-day parlor, with its table covered with the implements of real occupation and real amusement-mamma on the sofa, with her needle-grandmamma in her great chair, knitting-pussy winking at the fire between them, is gone. In its place we have two gorgeous rooms, arranged for company, but empty of human life; tables covered with gaudy, ostentatious, and useless articles—a very mockery of anything like rational pastime-the light of heaven as cautiously excluded as the delicious music of free, childish voices; every member of the family wandering in forlorn loneliness, or huddled in some "back room" or "basement," in which are collected the only means of comfort left them under this miserable arrangement. This is the substitute which hundreds of people accept in place of home! Shall we look in such places for hospitality? As soon expect figs from thistles. Invitations there will be occasionally, doubtless, for "society" expects it; but let a country cousin present himself, and see whether he will be put into the state apartments. Let no infirm and indigent relative expect a place under such a roof. Let not even the humble individual who placed the stepping-stone which led to that fortune ask a share in the abundance which would never have had a beginning but for his timely aid. "We have changed all that!"

ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.

THIS accomplished female writer, whose maiden name was Prince, was born in a village near Portland, Maine, and traces her descent, both on her father's and mother's side, to the early Puritans. She early showed uncommon powers of mind, and before she could write she would compose little stories, and print them in her rude way. At an early age she was married to Mr. Seba Smith, a lawyer and distinguished scholar, and at that time editor of the "Portland Advertiser," but since then better known throughout the country as the original "Jack Downing." In 1839, Mr. Smith removed to New York, and having become somewhat embarrassed in his business, Mrs. Smith, who had before written a good deal anonymously, now entered upon the profession of authorship openly, as the means of supporting the family. Her first published book was entitled "Riches without

Wings," written for the young, but interesting to readers of all ages. In 1842, she published a novel, "The Western Captive," founded on traditions of Indian life. In 1844, appeared "The Sinless Child, and other Poems," which were very favorably received, and passed through several editions. She then turned her attention to tragedy, and published "The Roman Tribute," founded on a period in the history of Constantinople when Theodosius saved it from being sacked by paying its price to Attila, the Hun; and "Jacob Leisler," founded upon a dramatic incident in the colonial history of New York in 1680. In 1848, appeared a fanciful prose tale, "The Salamander, a Legend for Christmas ;" and in 1851, "Woman and Her Needs," a volume on the "Woman's Rights" question, of which Mrs. Smith has been a prominent advocate. Her last publication, entitled "Bertha and Lily, or the Parsonage of Beech Glen, a Romance," is a story of American country life. Mrs. Smith now resides in Brooklyn, New York.

THE DROWNED MARINER.

A mariner sat on the shrouds one night,
The wind was piping free;

Now bright, now dimm'd was the moonlight pale,
And the phosphor gleam'd in the wake of the whale,
As he flounder'd in the sea;

The scud was flying athwart the sky,

The gathering winds went whistling by,

And the wave, as it tower'd, then fell in spray,
Look'd an emerald wall in the moonlight ray.

The mariner sway'd and rock'd on the mast,
But the tumult pleased him well:
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast,
And the monsters watch'd as they hurried past,
Or lightly rose and fell-

For their broad, damp fins were under the tide,
And they lash'd as they pass'd the vessel's side,
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim,
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him.

Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes
Like an uncurb'd steed along;

A sheet of flame is the spray she throws,
As her gallant prow the water ploughs,
But the ship is fleet and strong;
The topsails are reef'd, and the sails are furl'd,
And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world,
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood;
But there cometh no chill to the mariner's blood.

Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease,
And holds him by the shroud;

And as she careens to the crowding breeze,
The gaping deep the mariner sees,

And the surging heareth loud.

Was that a face, looking up at him,

With its pallid cheek, and its cold eyes dim?
Did it beckon him down? Did it call his name?
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came.
The mariner look'd, and he saw, with dread,
A face he knew too well;

And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead,
And its long hair out on the wave was spread-
Was there a tale to tell?

The stout ship rock'd with a reeling speed,
And the mariner groan'd, as well he need-
For ever down, as she plunged on her side,
The dead face gleam'd from the briny tide.
Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past;
A voice calls loud for thee:
There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last;
The plunging ship on her beam is cast-
O, where shall thy burial be?

Bethink thee of oaths, that were lightly spoken;
Bethink thee of vows, that were lightly broken;

Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee,
For thou art alone on the raging sea:

Alone in the dark, alone on the wave,
To buffet the storm alone;

To struggle aghast at thy watery grave,
To struggle and feel there is none to save!
God shield thee, helpless one!

The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past;
The trembling hands on the deep are cast;
The white brow gleams a moment more,
Then slowly sinks-the struggle is o'er.

Down, down where the storm is hush'd to sleep,
Where the sea its dirge shall swell;
Where the amber-drops for thee shall weep,
And the rose-lipp'd shell her music keep;
There thou shalt slumber well.

The gem and the pearl lie heap'd at thy side;

They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride,

From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow,

As they slowly sunk to the wave below.

A peopled home is the ocean-bed;

The mother and child are there:

The fervent youth and the hoary head,
The maid, with her floating locks outspread,
The babe, with its silken hair:

As the water moveth, they lightly sway,
And the tranquil lights on their features play:
And there is each cherish'd and beautiful form,
Away from decay, and away from the storm.

THE WIFE.

All day, like some sweet bird, content to sing
In its small cage, she moveth to and fro-
And ever and anon will upward spring

To her sweet lips, fresh from the fount below,
The murmured melody of pleasant thought,
Unconscious uttered, gentle-toned and low.
Light household duties, evermore inwrought
With placid fancies of one trusting heart
That lives but in her smile, and turns

From life's cold seeming and the busy mart, With tenderness, that heavenward ever yearns To be refreshed where one pure altar burns. Shut out from hence the mockery of life,

Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, trusting wife.

THE UNATTAINED.

And is this life? and are we born for this?
To follow phantoms that elude the grasp,
Or whatsoe'er secured, within our clasp,
To withering lie, as if each earthly kiss

Were doomed Death's shuddering touch alone to meet. O Life! hast thou reserved no cup of bliss?

Must still THE UNATTAINED beguile our feet? The UNATTAINED with yearnings fill the breast, That rob, for aye, the spirit of its rest?

Yes, this is Life; and everywhere we meet,
Not victor crowns, but wailings of defeat;
Yet faint thou not, thou dost apply a test

That shall incite thee onward, upward still-
The present cannot sate nor e'er thy spirit fill.

RELIGION.

Alone, yet not alone, the heart doth brood
With a sad fondness o'er its hidden grief;

Broods with a miser's joy, wherein relief

Comes with a semblance of its own quaint mood. How many hearts this point of life have passed! And some a train of light behind have cast,