hands brown from exposure and coarse with farm work. This boy, in the goodness of his heart, devoted himself entirely to the accomdation of Mrs. Talcott and her children, beginning by closing a shutter to keep the sun from their eyes. He presumed not to speak to any of the three; but he silently watched all their wants, and endeavoured to anticipate them, before they had time to ask the waiters for any thing. He placed within their reach whatever he thought it probable they would like, and to leave the more for them, he refrained from help ing himself to any of the best things; he replenished their glasses with water, handed them the bread basket, pushed the salt towards them and the pickles and the butter; rose and walked to the other end of the table to get the castors in case they might want any condiments. When the pies came, he rose again to bring a sugar-bowl, and place it before them; and he finally took a fly-brush from the mantel-piece, and waved it in their immediate vicinity, to prevent them from being incommoded by the flies that the sweet things had attracted to the table. All this was done in the most respectful manner, the kindness of the boy's feelings seeming to struggle with his diffidence and his sense of their gentility and his own inferiority. Mrs. Talcott, of course, received all his civilities with a complaisance that she took care he should understand, and the children could not refrain from breaking out into expressions of gratitude, particularly when he brought the sugar-dish. When dinner was over, and they rose from the table, Mrs. Talcott, on turning to thank the boy for his attention to them, found that he had already disappeared, and they saw him no more. Perceiving that you were in such good hands," said Mr. Carmony to his eldest daughter," Mr. Davenant and myself concluded not to interfere by any attentions of ours, but to let that poor boy have full scope with his simple and unpretending civilites."

66

"I was glad that you did so," replied Mrs. Talcott, "we could not have been better taken care of."

"I was not only amused," said Mr. Davenant, "but much more interested in observing the untaught politeness, and also the respectful silence of the country lad. Stranger as he is to the conventional forms of society, he has in him, with most of your people, the very essence of true politeness; a kind-hearted desire to contribute to the comfort of those about him."

Mr. Davenant was now drawn off by another gentleman, Mr. Ashbrook, who claimed acquaintance with him, and who took him to an upper balcony that he might see a distant field on which had been fought a revolutionary battle. "Grandpa," said little Frank Talcott," will you please to tell me what o'clock it is."

Mr. Carmony looked at his watch and satisfied him.

listening on purpose; and when we met that train of cars all loaded with pigs, I thought he would have called them ogs, but he did not; and whenever we passed a field that was ploughing, I was almost sure he would say hoxen, but still he never did. He does not talk a bit like our English writing-master, who don't know his own name, for he calls himself Hedward Icks; and who is always angry at our not keeping our faces when he tells us not to waste the hink, and to dot our hi's, and loop our he's, and to make our ho's hoval."

"Frank,” said his grandfather, "though Mr. Hicks is an excellent writing-master, he has not like Mr. Davenant had the advantage of being familiar with the conversation of welleducated society. It is his misfortune not his fault, that he has the unaccountable habit peculiar to the common people of England, of always misplacing the letter H. Mr. Hicks should be pitied, and not laughed at."

"Indeed," resumed Frank, "he has no notion of being pitied; for he thinks himself far above any body in America, and so does his wife Hann as he calls her."

"Well, well," said Mr. Carmony, "it is not fair to judge of the English nation by the generality of the specimens that we find on this side of the water; many of them never having an opportunity of mixing in genteel society till after they come to America. But Mr. Davenant has evidently been a gentleman all his life."

"There can be no doubt of that," coincided Mrs. Carmony, and then in a low voice she said to her daughter, "Lydiana, why have you been so silent all day?"

"Mamma, I have been so engaged in looking out at the country we were passing through." "That's all very well, and a fine comfortable convenient looking country it is; but still you might have made some attempt at joining in the conversation with the English gentleman." "I should not have known what to say to him."

"How can you be at a loss, after reading so many novels of English fashionable life?" asked Mrs. Talcott, smiling.

"And have you not a thick green book called the Picture of London?" said her mother; "that your father bought you when you were a little girl, and told you to study it."

"Then, you know," continued Mrs. Talcott, "all those volumes of Ackerman's Repository that were lent you by Mrs. Englemode. Beside the numerous British annuals with which you have been presented. Really, my dear sister, I think you must be au-fait to England and the English."

"It is true," said Lydiana, "that they are a people for whom I have always had a great partiality, notwithstanding, papa, and Mr. Talcott and even little Frank-"

"Well, well," interrupted her mother;"make a beginning-talk to Mr. Davenant; and if your courage fails, Harriet and I will help you out; for to say the truth, your father has the whole burden of the conversation on himself."

"Oh! I am very sure papa did not consider it a burden," replied Lydiana.

Mr. Davenant now joined them, and the coaches being at the door, it was arranged that he was to ride with the Carmony family. The other places in the vehicle were filled by a Frenchman who could not speak English, and an old lady who spoke nothing.

After the coach started, there was a silence of a few minutes, and Lydiana, not without a blush at her own temerity, made an effort at conversation with Mr. Davenant, by asking him "if the Duke of Devonshire had light hair or dark."

"I really do not know," was his reply. "Is Lady Blessington as handsome as that engraving of her in which she is represented in a white satin dress with blond sleeves and a blond veil. Do you consider it a good likeness?"

"I have seen the plate," replied Mr. Davenant, "I should suppose she cannot now be so handsome as when that picture was painted." "Has not the queen a very agreeable voice?" "So it is said, but I have never been near enough to hear her speak."

"What, not on court days? Perhaps the drawing-room is always so crowded that it is impossible for all the company to get a chance of approaching her."

"I do not go to court," replied Mr. Davenant, smiling.

"You are in the opposition, then, I suppose," remarked Mr. Carmony, “But I am very sure

you would be well received, if you were to go."

"I should not be received at all," replied Mr. Davenant, (his hearers looked astonished.) "I am not presentable at the court of England." Lydiana sat a little farther back.

66

Really, sir," returned Mr. Carmony, "I am surprised to hear that, (excuse me for saying so,) but I should think that a gentleman of your deportment might be presentable at any court in the world. I must confess that if there is one thing I take pride in more than another, it is in the peculiar tact I have for discovering at once the character and station of a foreigner. And I have no hesitation in averring (notwithstanding you assume so little,) it is easy at a glance to form a tolerably correct opinion of the rank you hold in your own country.'

"I am sorry to hear you say so,” replied the Englishman, biting his lips.

"So different," pursued Mr. Carmony, "from the numerous British adventurers that flock to our shores. Boasting continually, as they do, of the superior society in which they moved at home; talking familiarly of lords and duchesses and of the squares and the parks, and pretending to be residents of the west end of London, when in reality they have most probably passed their whole lives among the furnaces and steamengines of Birmingham or Sheffield; being nothing more than button-makers, or perhaps bag

BEAUTIFUL stream! thou art bounding along,
Buoyant and bright, like a being of song;
Love laughs in thy eyes, joy sits on thy lips;
Health in thy bosom his fresh pinion dips,
And thou boundest on in thy wild heart glee,
Swelling the forest minstrelsy.

Yet nor thy beauty nor music I sing,
These to my bosom faint extasy bring;
Love-lisping maiden may list to thy shell,
Romance sit mute in the sphere of thy spell;
Thou'st a charm more exquisite far for me,

'Tis in thy wild utility.

Thou fling'st o'er the verdureless bank thy wave, The grass bursts in freshness its turf-bound grave;

Thou swellest the heart of the humble flower,
And it woos the gale with a spirit-power;
Thou nervest the strength of the leafless tree,
It blooms in rich fertility.

Quaffs of thy fountain the labour-worn steer,
Breathes at thy margin the weary wild-deer,
The fisherman finds a prayer in his soul,
As he drops his hook in the still trout hole;
And the maid of the tub sings a song to thee,
Sweet in her rude simplicity.

Thou barest the strength of thine arm for weal,
The trip-hammer fashions the stubborn steel;
Thou wing'st the mill with the speed of a bird,
Anon the sound of the grinding is heard;
And the son of the shuttle blesseth thee,

Pent in his busy factory.

I too will bless thee, for bright were the hours
My boy hoood hath known in the wood-scented
bowers,

That border thy marge;-I pluck'd the sweet bell,
With rapture admired the petrified shell;
O, like thy proud little wave, I was free,
Fresh in the heart's sincerity.
Lowville.

IN 1663, the province of South Carolina was formed, and liberty of conscience was allowed by the charter.

IN 1664, Nova Cassova, or New Jersey, was settled under the auspices of Lord Berkeley and others.

THE

THE clouds are bright in the crimson west,
And the day-king veils his glow,

As he journeys down to his fabled rest
In the fretwork halls of the ocean's breast,
Where the coral gardens grow.

And on her dying couch is one

Whose life-stream ebbing fast, Tells that her sands are almost run, And the light of another circling sun Shall number her with the past.

She was a being of visions bright,

A child of hope and song;

Her glad eye flashed with its living light,
Like a star in the blue of a summer's night,
The silvery clouds among.

O, who can number the cords that sleep
In the bosom's secret bower?

Or tell of its numbers wild and deep
As the lyre-strings thrill to the magic sweep
Of love's strong hand of power?

But a mildew fell on her early years,

Like the spring frost's cruel doom;
Or the poisonous blight of night's chill tears,
When she sadly weeps on the withering ears,
Or cankers the violet's bloom.

And soft as the dying swan she sings,
Along death's billowy wave;
The spirit hath plumed its sky-bent wing
For the land where living waters spring,
The realms beyond the grave.

"Sweet sister, I am dying,

The spectre-king is near;
I hear the death-wail sighing

Like the dirge above the bier :
But though the grave before me

Its shadowy twilight flings,
There still seems hovering o'er me
Bright ranks of plumy wings.
"No more these eyes shall linger

On the rainbow's beauteous form,
By love's unchanging finger
Engraven on the storm;
Or on the starry splendour
Of night's cerulean dome,

Or the moonbeams soft and tender,
Gilding the cascade's foam.

ONE.

"But round my dying pillow,
The light of other days,
Like star-light on the billow
In fitful radiance plays;
As when in life's bright places
On childhood's happy dawn,
With ranks of sunny faces,

We ranged the flowery lawn.

"Remember'd forms are 'round me, And tones of long past years; Ere the golden links that bound me Were dim with sorrow's tears; When to each loftier measure

Hang hope's gay-wreathen lyre, And the blooming bowers of pleasure, Thrill'd to the mystic wire.

"Farewell, those harp-like numbers
Now in the distance roll,
The spell of chilling slumbers
Falls heavy on my soul;
And from the mental vision
Earth's fleeting glories fade,
But I see the fair Elysian,
With living gems inlaid.

"Lo, mercy's bow o'erarching The High Eternal One, Where cherub armies marching

Bow low before the throne; And love's all-glorious banners

To heaven's soft breezes flung, While songs and loud hosannas

Dwell on each raptured tongue.

“List, list, what strains of glory
From seraph lyre-strings swell,
They peal the lofty story
Of prince Immanuel;

And oh, the thrilling cadence

Has still'd the death-tide's roar; The waves now beam with radiance, For Jesus walks before."

The young day mantles with ruddy glow, The sea, and earth, and sky;

But that bird-like music has ceased its flow, The death-shade rests on the snowy brow, And veil'd is the flashing eye.

OUR JULY NUMBER.

The present number commences our eighteenth volume, and we make this an occasion to renew our thanks for the munificent patronage which has been bestowed on us. It is in no spirit of vain boasting, but because we wish to record a fact so honourable to the liberality of the public, that we mention that our list now exceeds the combined number of any other three monthly publications, and if we can judge of the future by the past it will reach by next year, the astonishing number of 25,000. Impelled by ample encouragement like this, we shall of course continue and redouble our exertions to deserve favour. In our mechanical departments we contemplate various improvements. We have ordered for our next volume

an entire new supply of type of the newest and most beautiful character and paper of a superior quality. We have also made arrangements with artists of skill and celebrity to furnish us with a series of original engravings; in addition to those already promised; and we expect to be able to secure the services of an eminent composer to prepare a succession of musical gems expressly for our work.

As regards the literary department of the Lady's Book, we have and shall use unremitted efforts to maintain for it the high character it has so long sustained. To this end we offer the most liberal payment to contributors whose articles we approve. Among those who have heretofore contributed to our pages, or from whom we have received articles for publication, we may mention,