one week to another. I there have my baby, my thoughts, and (woman's mighty solace !) abundance of plain sewing. Happy sex! who find our Egeria within the compass of a small wicker-work basket, while the breast of tired and toiling man beats only responsive to the voice of ambition, or the chink of riches. There's an idea going the rounds, that the sphere of woman is contracted.' She can't skate on the Delaware, nor walk down by herself to the Exchange, to hear the morning news; but there are excellent plots' in the arrangement of patch-work, and life's sweetness comes to a focus in the boiling midst of a kettle of molasses candy!'

a

STANZA S.

• We met and we parted.'

We met! I clasped as fair a hand

As ever graced an earthly form;
Its answering touch was mild and bland

Was witching, soft, and warm.
We met! I saw an eye as bright

As is the eldest star of even;
It shed such rays of melting light

As beam around the queen of heaven.

!

I heard a voice, whose low-breathed tone

Was sweet as an Eolian strain ;
Cheering, as in the burning zone

The wind's first whisper on the main.
I saw a lip whose ruby hue

Put painting's brightest tint to shame,
And sparkled with as pure a dew

As e'er was sipped by morning's beam.
That cheek where rose and lily vie,

And each alternate gains the prize,
Bearned like a summer's sunset sky,

When snow-white cloud-wreaths blend its dyes.
A swan had marked that neck of white

With envious yet enamoured eye;.
Warbling, he sank from 'neath the light,

And left to her his melody.
And those who saw that brow, might deem

An ancient tale with truth was rife,
And think that there a heavenly beam

Had warmed the marble into life.
Her hair was of such mingled tint,

That to describe one shade were vain ;
Ils varying hues the sunbeams paint

On waving fields of golden grain.
That voice was tuned to winning notes,

Those charms around me wove their spell;
But on the past the vision floats

Of one I learned to love too well.
We parted! Chill that lily hand,

And cold that eye had learned to be;
And Giulia, on a foreign strand

I pour this strain of love to thee!

THE OLD TOWN PUMP.

AND a good many of ye town of Boston can testifie, that evill spirits have greatly troubled them, appearing in diverse forms and shapes, and sometimes continuing their hatefull visits, at brief intervals, for nearly a whole moneth at a time.'

COTTON MATHER.

NEARLY a century ago, long before our good ancestors, the colonists, thought of throwing off the yoke of Great Britain, there was an old pump, situated at the foot of Copp's Hill. In its best days, it had been celebrated for supplying the North End with the purest water in Boston. It had its failings, however, as what pump has not? It resolutely refused water, save early in the morning or late at night. When morning and night came, therefore, it was thronged with regular customers,' who, notwithstanding the large numbers, peaceably took their turn, without even so much as shoving or pushing, to gain precedence. Alas! how short is human life! Not one of all the goodly company who were wont to resort to that pump, are now living. They have wasted from the face of the earth, and even their names have perished! The venerable old relic, too, its antiquated handle, its curious-crooked nose, its old-fashioned shoe, and its short, round body, and thick cap, with Timothy Block, Maker, 1700,' engraved upon it, has perished. Ah, me! that old pump! which once served as a landmark to a lost townsman in a dark night, even as the light-house guides the tempest-tossed mariner, which was the assignation-place, the trysting-tree, could it have spoken, what tales could it not have unfolded, of plots, rebellion, and treason! It could bave whispered, too, of the lover's soft tale, told beneath its friendly shadow. But it has perished; its springs have long since dried up, its body prostrated, and its ancient cap, which should have claimed respect for its antiquity, from the hand of sacrilege, laid level with the dust. Avarice and worldly gain has erected a block of buildings upon the site which it once occupied, and it is known no more.

About a stone's throw from the spot upon which it stood, there still existed, in 1800, an old-fashioned two-story wooden house, once painted red, but so altered by time, that scarcely a vestige of its former color remained, when it was torn down. This was the residence of Bill Gray, a cobbler by trade, who supported his mother and himself from his earnings, by mending shoes and leggins for the good town's people of Boston. Bill was fond of an extra glass, and often in the summer season, when his day's work was over, would run down to the King George' tavern, only just for a few minutes, where, in company with congenial spirits, he was pretty sure to spend half the night.

One evening in May, 1750, Bill was seated as usual in the tap-room of the 'King George. A storm had been gathering all day in the heavens, and just at nightfall had burst in all its fury upon the little town of Boston. So sudden had been its advent, that many, who but a minute before had prophesied that it would undoubtedly hold off till morning, were, in spite of their prediction, compelled to fly for shelter to the nearest cover. Of this number was Bill gray, who

'Come, look out how you hit me, Bill Gray!' said a gruff voice, close to him."

Bill raised his eyes, in unfeigned astonishment, and beheld, seated across the nose of the pump, a little figure scarcely two feet in height, dressed in a black suit, with a red woollen cap on his head. He was one entire deformity. On his back he carried a miniature mountain, his head was larger than any three Bill had ever seen; his legs were like drum-sticks, and his face was lit up with a hideous expression, while from his eyes there darted an unearthly twinkle. Who who are you?' stammered Gray.

'My name is Knippercrack,' answered the same gruff voice: 'I am the tutelar genius of this pump. I preside over its destinies, and I won't permit it to be abused, especially by one upon whom it has been in the habit of conferring its favors.'

As he said this, the little man clapped his hands, and gave vent to something between a screech and a howl, which rëechoed through the neighborhood, until it seemed that it would lift the very roofs of the houses; and our hero fancied he could hear the same cry repeated in chorus by a thousand voices, on the summit of Copp's. 'Now, tell me,' growled the genius-'tell me truly, or I'll pass you over to the good people up the hill there what are you doing here, at this time of night?'

་

Bill made out to say that he was after water.

Hoo! hoo! hoo!' yelled Knippercrack. Hoo! hoo! hoo!' repeated the chorus on the hill. Tell that to those whom you can make believe it!' continued Knippercrack, with a laugh of derision; come after water at this time of night? All fudge! You lie, Bill Gray! you know you lie!'

6

ble chains which bound him, that he could not move a limb an inch; and to add to his distress, the imp still maintained his position across the nose of the pump, rubbing his hands in great glee, and ever and anon yelling forth his fearful Hoo! hoo! hoo!'

* Run for your bucket, Bill !" cried Knippercrack, giving it a kick toward the grave-yard on the hill. Bill, released from the spell which bound him, darted after it Away it went, rolling over tombstones, graves, and tablets; and away went Bill in pursuit, buffeting with the ghosts, giving out and receiving blows, but all in vain; for no sooner did he think he had his bucket safe, than it was snatched away by some invisible hand. Thus it continued, until near morning, and Bill at last gave it up in despair. Leaving the bucket to its fate, he sought his humble dwelling:

When the regular troop repaired to the pump, in the morning, to draw their accustomed supplies of water, they found a bucket filled to the brim, suspended under its nose. Our hero often related his adventure, but as none of the good town's people had ever heard of Knippercrack, they all came to the conclusion that Bill must have either been drunk or dreaming.

OFT would she sit and look upon the sky,

When rich clouds in the golden sunset lay
Basking, and loved to hear the soft winds sigh,

That come like music at the close of day
Trembling among the orange blooms, and die
As 't were of very sweetness.

She was gay,
Meeekly and calmly gay, and then her gaze
Was brighter than belongs to dying days.
And on her young, thin cheek a vivid flush,

A clear transparent color, sat awhile;
'T was like, a bard would say, the morning's blush,

And round her mouth there play'd a gentle smile,
Which though at first it might your terrors hush,

It could not, though it strove, at last beguile;
And her hand shook, and then 'rose the blue vein,
Branching about in all its windings plain.
The girl was dying. Youth and beauty, all

Men love or woman boast of, was decaying,
And one by one life's finest flowers did fall

Before the touch of Death, who seem'd delaying,
As though he'd not the heart at once to call

That maiden to his home. At last, arraying
Himself in softest guise, he came: she sigh'd
And, smiling as though her lover whispered, died !
He saw her where she lay, in silent state,

Cold and as white as marble: and her eye,
Whereon such bright and beaming beauty sale,

Was, after the fashion of mortality,
Closed up for ever : even the smiles which late

None could withstand, were gone; and there did lie
(For he had drawn aside the shrouding veil,)
By her a helpless hand, waxen and pale.

32

VOL. XII.