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rence. He is the ugliest and vainest wretch you ever saw, and holds every thing but music in sovereign contempt. His eyes are like two gooseberries, projecting different ways; and when he ogles me, as he sometimes has the impudence to do, it puts me in mind of the queer say. ing of the western country, about a streak of lightning through a gooseberry bush.' The other day he heard by some accident of Washington, and asked me who he was. I told him a great general.

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Phew!—a great general! What is leading an army, to leading an orchestra, eh?

But he was the Father of his Country.

'Bah! What is the father of his country to the father of one grande Italian opera, eh ?'

He assures mamma, that though we have a barbarous ear, and a still more barbarous taste,-as might be expected, considering whence we came, he is in hopes that by practising seven or eight hours a day for eight or ten years, he may be able to make something of us. But Madame Signora must not expect much-for he assures her, upon his honor, there never yet was a singer fit to be heard, except in a concert of republican frogs, who was not born and bred in Italy. Besides music, we are learning Italian, and half a hundred other things, so that we are the merest slaves in the world. I could not help laughing at poor Jane, who said to me the other day-Lord, sister, I wish we were spinning cotton in a factory on the Housatonic.'

But what is that? Sure I heard my mother shriek!

Alas! my dear Harriet, here is an end of mamma's glory, and my education. I ran into her apartment to learn what was the matter, and was shocked to see her struggling and screaming, with an open letter in her hand. She soon however recovered sufficiently to let me understand that the letter conveyed intelligence that my poor father had failed in the codfish and turpentine line, and contained directions for our immediate return home. Mamma is now somewhat tranquil, but raves at poor papa, for being such a fool as to pay his debts, instead of allowing his daughters to finish their education abroad. Having however received a remittance, some days before, she is resolved to stay here a few months longer, give a great party, and depart, as she says, with colors flying. Monseigneur the Prince is quite in despair. Mamma accidentally let out that he had borrowed considerable sums from her, and had never hinted the remotest suspicion that he intended to pay them. 'A prince borrow money!' you will exclaim. Why, my dear, a good portion of the titles in Europe have not as much land to their backs as your father's old porter now owns at Northampton. They are very poor, and very proud—that is, they look down on those who earn money, and yet are mean enough to borrow it when they can.

For my part, though I lament the misfortune of poor papa, I am rejoiced at the idea of returning to a country where I shall again be somebody. I long to be where I can talk, and walk, and laugh, and sing, and hop from spray to spray, like the little birds of my native bowers, and where a young woman is not looked upon as a flower that is in danger of being plucked the moment it is seen. I am tired of the everlasting

cascine; the dove.colored oxen; the muddy Arno; the mawkish gallantry; most especially of holding my tongue and being nobody; and above all, of my music-master, for whose ugly sake I am like to have all my life a horror of pianos and overtures. Farewell, dear Harriet! In a few months I shall be with you on the top of Mount Holyoke, contemplating a scene which all Italy cannot banish from my memory.

DEFENCE OF POESY.

I MET an odd engraving the other day in the print stores. Quite a simple affair -a garden-a bower-a lady-that's all. She is, of course, extremely beautiful, and is reclining on an artificial couch, holding a letter in her hand, which, it is pretty evident, she has just been reading. The artist has entitled this print "THE SONNET," but why or wherefore does not appear. He has given no further explanation of what he intended to convey to the mind of the beholder,-an omission which vexed me not a little, as I am always curious about such matters, and like to discover, if I can, at least the meaning of any composition I may have spent my time in examining. Both the drawing and the engraving are exceedingly well done. “Oh the opaque darkness," said I to myself as I laid the print aside, and left the store, "that rests upon that sonnet! What can it mean?" I was sadly puzzled, and did not get entirely rid of the subject until I was rid of the following verses. I think I have hit the artist's intention, and therefore send the lines for publication in your excellent magazine, for the benefit of all poor wights who may be similarly situated with myself, while scrutinizing the print I have attempted to describe :

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Do my readers ask, "sir poet,
Wherefore weave your web of song?"
To instruct you-and I'll show it;

Mark me well, ye wooing throng:
To the fair you'd marry-better

Write than speak-but write in time-
And be sure to put the letter

In the very best of rhyme!

G. P. Mon es

WALK OF THE ARABIAN PHILOSOPHER.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Ar the court of the Caliph Musa Al Hadi, there lived an old man whose name was Al Raschid. He was one of those upon whom the lit. tle insects of the court love to sharpen their wit, and whose presence is the greatest bane to the peace of the ladies. In the course of a life of seventy-six years, he had been banished fourteen times from the presence of his sovereign, for some one of the disagreeable truths that were constantly hovering upon his lips. He laughed at his sentence, for the garden of nature was his sweetest society; and as soon as it was seen that he could be happy at a distance from court, he was again recalled to its cares.

On one of these occasions, while pursuing the study of wisdom in the solitudes of nature, he chanced to discover a method of learning the language of animals, and from that moment the study of their various species became his chief amusement. He often found more wisdom in their harmless chattering, than in the studied conversation of the court.

One day he observed upon the leaves of a b.sh a colony of the little insects that we call Ephemera,'- -a race, the bounds of whose exis. tence are hardly separated: for they are born, and they die on the same day. As Al Raschid drew nigh to a party of these little animals, he perceived that they were eagerly engaged in controversy; but as they all spoke together, he could not at first make out the subject of their dispute: but at length the loudest speaker, became exhausted with his exertions, and Al Raschid perceived that the controversy was occasioned by two newly arrived virtuosi, a Bumble-bee and a Fly, whose respective merits had completely divided the voices of the assembly. One party asserted that the Bumble-bee sang the sweetest bass that had ever been heard in the kingdom of insects, while the other preferred the agreeable treble of the Fly.

Ah! happy race! cried the sage, who, in spite of the few hours that are given you to live, can enjoy the bass of the Bumble-bee, and the treble of the Fly. He turned, with a smile, to an elder of the Ephemera, who, seated alone upon a small leaf, pursued the following soliloquy:

The most renowned sages of my race, who lived many long hours before me, asserted that this earth could not last more than eighteen hours; and it seems clear to me that their doctrine is true. For when

I reflect how, even in my own time, the great sun, from which all nature derives its life, has drawn nearer to the ocean that surrounds us, I can. not but feel that there at last its long career must end; its glorious light be quenched in the waves; the earth be buried in eternal darkness, and chaos once more resume its universal sway. Seven of these eighteen hours have I myself counted; four hundred and twenty minutes! A good old age! How few ever reach this period! Whole generations have come into life, have bloomed and disappeared from before my eyes. The friends that now surround me are the children and the grandchildren of the friends of my youth-of those friends, alas! who have long since gone where I must quickly follow. It is true, I thank God, that good health has been granted even to my advanced age; but still I cannot, in the usual order of nature, count, at the utmost, upon more than eight minutes of life What now avail me all my toils and anxieties ? What is it to me that by a thousand cares I have gathered upon this leaf a treasure of sweet dew? The fast approaching moment of death will not permit me to enjoy it. In vain have I oft dared the foes of my nation in the dizzy fight! In vain have I planted this little colony, far from the tumult of the world, and strove to form it by wise and holy laws! My friends, indeed, flatter me that I shall leave a glorious name behind; but what can fame itself avail me, when, at the end of eleven hours, the sun must be extinguished, and the universe buried in eternal chaos? Oh, could I but hope for a glory of thirty or forty hours!'

Al Raschid laughed, but suddenly checking himself he cried: Count we by days, or count we by hours, is there not alike an end to all?' G. W. G.

THE SET OF CHINA:

A SKETCH.

'MR. GUMMAGE,' said Mrs. Atmore, as she entered a certain drawing school, at that time the most fashionable in Philadelphia, I have brought you a new pupil, my daughter, Miss Marianne Atmore. Have you a vacancy?'

"

Why, I can't say that I have,' replied Mrs. Gummage: I never have vacancies.'

I am very sorry to hear it,' said Mrs. Atmore; and Miss Marianne, a tall handsome girl of fifteen, looked disappointed

But perhaps I could strain a point, and find a place for her,' resumed Mr. Gummage, who knew very well that he never had the smallest idea of limiting the number of his pupils, and that if twenty more were to apply, he would take them every one, however full his school might be.

Do, pray,' Mr. Gummage,' said Mrs. Atmore; do try and make an exertion to admit my daughter: I shall regard it as a particular favor.' Well, I believe she may come,' replied Gummage; I suppose I can sake her. Has she any turn for drawing?'

she has never tried.'

'I don't know,' answered Mrs. Atmore, 'So much the better,' said Gummage: I like girls that have never tried; they are much more manageable than those that have been scratching and daubing at home all their lives.'

Mr. Gummage was no gentleman, either in appearance or manner. But he passed for a genius among those who knew nothing of that illunderstood race. He had a hooked nose that turned to the right, and a crooked mouth that turned to the left-his face being very much out of drawing-and he had two round eyes that in color and expression resembled two hazel-nuts. His lips were pea-green and blue,' from the habit of putting the brushes into his mouth when they were overcharged with color. He took snuff illimitably, and generally carried half a dozen handkerchiefs, some of which, however, were to wrap his dinner in, as he conveyed it home from market in his capacious pockets; others, as he said, were to wipe the girls' saucers.'

His usual costume was an old dusty brown coat, corduroy pantaloons, and waistcoat that had once been red, boots that had once been black, and a low crowned rusty hat-which was never off his head, even in the presence of ladies-and a bandanna cravat. The vulgarity of his habits, and the rudeness of his deportment, all passed off under the title of eccentricity. At the period in which he flourished-it was long be fore the time of Sully-the beau ideal of an artist, at least among the multitude, was an ugly, ill-mannered, dirty fellow, that painted an inch thick in divers gaudy colors, equally irreconcilable to nature and art. And the chief attractions of a drawing master-for Mr. Gummage was nothing more-lay in doing almost every thing himself, and producing for his pupils, in their first quarter, pictures (so called) that were pronounced fit to frame.'

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'Well, madam,' said Mr. Gummage, what do you wish your daughter to learn? figures, flowers, or landscapes?'

'Oh! all three,' replied Mrs. Atmore. • We have been furnishing our new house, and I told Mr. Atmore that he need not get any pictures. for the front parlor, as I would much prefer having them all painted by Marianne. She has been four quarters with Miss Julia,* and has worked Friendship and Innocence, which cost, altogether, upwards of a hundred dollars. Do you know the piece, Mr. Gummage? There is a tomb with a weeping willow, and two ladies with long hair, one drest in pink the other in blue, holding a wreath between them over the top of the urn. The inscription on the tomb is, Sacred to Friendship.' The ladies are Friendship. Then on the right hand of the piece is a cottage, and an oak, and a little girl dressed in yellow, sitting on a green bank, and putting a wreath round the neck of a lamb. Nothing can be more natural than the lamb's wool. It is done entirely in French knots. The child and the lamb are Innocence.'

'Ay, ay,' said Gummage, I know the piece well enough-I've drawn them by dozens.'

Miss JULIANA BATER, an old Moravian lady from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, who was well known in Philadelphia, many years since, as a teacher of embroidery.

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