bespoken by his noble friends and employers. Edwin Landseer has a brother, who is one of the best English engravers, and who usually engraves his pictures. We believe that, of the foreign copy of the one before our readers, both brothers were in this way the authors.

THE MAIN-TRUCK; OR, A LEAP FOR LIFE.*

A NAUTICAL BALLAD.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

OLD Ironsides at anchor lay
In the harbor of Mahon;
A dead calm rested on the bay-
The waves to sleep had gone;
When little Jack, the captain's son,

With gallant hardihood,

Climbed shroud and spar-and then upon

The main-truck rose and stood!

A shudder ran through every vein-
All eyes were turned on high!
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,

Between the sea and sky!

* Founded upon a well-known tale from the pen of the late William Leggett, Esq.

No hold had he above-below,

Alone he stood in air!

At that far height none dared to go—
No aid could reach him there.

We gazed—but not a man could speak !— With horror all aghast,

THE FATHER CAME ON DECK!-He gasped,

"Oh God! thy will be done!" Then suddenly a rifle grasped,

And aimed it at his son! "Jump, far out, boy! into the wave! Jump, or I fire!" he said: "That only chance your life can save! Jump-jump, boy!"-He obeyed.

He sunk-he rose-he lived-he moved

He for the ship struck out!

On board we hailed the lad beloved,

With many a manly shout.

His father drew, in silent joy,

Those wet arms round his neck, Then folded to his heart the boy,

And fainted on the deck.

THE MUSIC-MASTER.

A TALE OF FRANCE.

"Extensive Sale of Objects of Curiosity, Pictures, Books, Clocks, and all other Furniture, the property of a lady lately deceased."

SUCH was the announcement in Galignani's Messenger, which first struck my eye as I sat listlessly looking out of the readingroom window in the Rue Vivienne, alternately glancing at the journal I have mentioned and the heavy drops of rain, as they pattered against the panes of glass. Inwardly, I had been drawing a comparison between my present situation and that of the gentleman similarly situated and graphically described by Washington Irving. As far as actual position was concerned, I yielded without hesitation to the stout gentleman, for he had, at least, a flock of ducks to watch and observe; whereas, in the court-yard of Monsieur Galignani, not even a blade of grass showed itself, to break the monotony of the scene.

It may seem strange that, in a gay metropolis like Paris, where every one confessedly resorts for amusement, I should thus feel lone and dull, puzzled-awfully puzzled-how to kill time; yet