do for him out of doors.

"Nothing, I am much obliged to you, but to make my peace with the members of the CLUB, whenever you write to or see them." I assured him that I would, and left the apartment.

body else than Mr. Hock, But he has had so many

Now reader, if this were any I should fear for and pity him. freaks of fancy of every sort, that they have become a second nature to him; and I have no doubt that he will shortly recover from this as he has from all the others, and have a very lucid and healthy interval.

SONNET.

YEARS have passed o'er me, lovely Isabel,
Since last I gazed upon thy beauteous face,
So full of Nature's loveliness and grace;-
They could a tale of grief and anguish tell,
Which, even now, from out its secret cell
Would bring the unbidden tear-drop to thine eye,
And waken in thy breast the burning sigh
In memory of one who loved thee well.
But yet I would not that it should be so.

That sorrow ne'er may cloud thy sunny brow,
Nor chill thy youthful spirits as they flow,
Is the warm prayer that I may offer now.
A lonely wanderer on the pathless sea,
Thus wafts his wayward benison to thee.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

No. I.

A BATTLE PIECE.

SILKEN banners flapping loudly,

On the gale unfurled;

To the death they meet so proudly,
Steed and rider hurled;

Sabre beaming,
Helmet gleaming,

In the troubled air;

Nobly bearing,

Bravely daring, Every foeman there!

Crest and plume of purple dye,
Armour red with gore;
Trumpet note and warrior cry,
Battle's echoed roar;

Lances flashing,

Bucklers clashing,

Bugles sounding out;
Charging, flying,
Slaying, dying,
Victory and rout!

No. II.

A SUPPER PIECE.

Ducks and turkeys, soups and fishes, On the table laid;

Quick the many pleasant dishes

Vanish to a shade!

Glass is beaming,

Silver gleaming,

On the merry board;

Wit is flowing,

Bright and glowing,

While the wine is poured!

Wine is rich within the glasses,

Rich upon the lip;

Swift the cordial liquid passes,

Swallow follows sip;

Songs are singing,
Shouts are ringing,

Through the lofty hall;

Toasting, laughing,

Deeply quaffing,

Let the curtain fall!

THE SCREECHING LADY.

MANY years since a youth and his bride,
Built them a cot by the water side;
High on a beetling cliff it stood,
Girt by a rocky solitude;

She was a witch and a wizard he,
And they spend their days right merily!

Oft they ride on the waters dark,
And shatter the mariner's fragile bark;
Or sail the air when the sky is blue,
In a rapid car of the sky's own hue;
Or dive to the caves of the ocean deep,
And visit the cells where the mermaids sleep,
Or idly lurk in the modest flowers,

Which maidens pluck in the wildwood bowers;
Bearing bliss or scattering wo,

By land or sea, wherever they go.

And they lead a gay and happy life-
Considering they were man and wife.
The gentleman asks a friend to dine,
And smokes his cigar, and drinks his wine;
The lady seldom scolds or frets,

And her pin-money pays her gambling debts;
So years of mutual bliss roll by,

In the spirit cot, 'way up in the sky!

But the brightest flowers are born to fade,
And clouds the sunniest skies will shade.
And so it chanced, one brilliant night,
He mounted his gig with a brother sprite,
And stayed from home till the morning light!
He had been off with a merry crew,
Singing and quaffing mountain dew;

And his wife was wroth, as she well might be,
At the thought of her solitary tea!

The lady frowned-when the husband came
Riding home to his watchful dame;

The lady darkened-and bit her lips,

And looked like the moon in a half-eclipse!

The lady opened her mouth-and spoke,

And volleys of wrath from her quick tongue broke ; "A pretty kettle of fish!" quoth he,

And cast a glance at the raging sea!

His brow grows black, and his eye grows red,
As he stands on the cliffs of Marblehead ;
And he looks on his bride with a vacant stare,
And wreathes his hand in her raven hair;
A terrible scream-as he lifts her high,

And she spins like a top between earth and sky!

ހ

That scream for many a league is heard,
By the startled beast and the scared sea-bird;
The old cliffs shake, as its echoes wake,

And the troubled waves on the broad shore break;
And far over meadow and valley and stream,
The casing air is a general scream!

And since, at times, by day or night,

In the glare of noon, or the soft moonlight;
When storms are abroad, or the skies are fair,
That voice is heard in the troubled air.
The maiden sleeps, and her virgin dream
Is often broke by that fearful scream.
The old crone sits by her chimney-side,
And the mariner floats on the restless tide;
And it chills the blood in their veins to hear
That terrible voice come shrill and clear.
And the curse, they say, will never more
Pass from the cliffs of that fated shore!

A JAUNT ON FOOT.

MR. EDITOR, hearing that you have been deserted by the whole Club, and taking compassion on your forlorn situation, I have written for your pages the following sketch. It is at your service, if deemed worthy of admission. Mr. La-Touche's "Strollings" have proved very generally pleasing perhaps a similarity of subject may give something of the same interest to my "Jaunt."

PHILO-GEOFFRY.

At 4 o'clock in the morning, not far from the middle of last August, I left Boston for Northampton. What! commence a walk of a hundred and ninety miles-thither and

back, gentle reader-in dog-days! Ay,-for the roads being covered with snow in December, and with mire generally in April-August, hot as it is, is our most eligible vacation season for travelling. Accordingly, about the middle of that month I set out, as I said before, for Northampton, early in the morning, and strengthened by a cup of coffee. What a delicious beverage! It must have been the nectar of the ancient gods. At least I am sure it was a Hebe who helped me to it on this occasion.

Our suburban country, over eighteen miles of which I passed the first day, presents, as every one knows, a succession of the most beautiful and cheering scenes. Who ever walked through a thriving country town, of a summer morning, undelighted? "The cock's shrill clarion, and the echoing horn," the tinkling of that distant sheep-bell, yon blithe-tripping form with the milk-pail, and those dewed meadows laughing in the fresh sun-light, are enough "to create a soul under the ribs of Death."

On the evening of the second day, I found myself at Sterling-about forty miles accomplished in two days. Few travellers would have done more; and yet twenty miles employ but about half a dozen hours; how is the rest of the day to be spent? There's the rub-the great difficulty in pedestrian travelling: you cannot walk half so long as you wake. If" the dog-star rages," walk in the morning and evening, principally; rest at an inn, or, if possible, at a farm-house, during the hottest part of the day; and amuse yourself as you can. The convenience of having in your sack a few multum in parvo volumes of your favorite poet, will immediately suggest itself to you. I had not thought to furnish myself. Accordingly, at the half-way house on my second day's route, I was obliged, after stretching myself comfortably on the outside of a bed, to inquire of the landlord, "Whether there was such a thing as a book in the house." Mine host, far from embarrassed at a demand, to which I supposed his ears somewhat unused, replied, "Certainly, Sir," with an air, not only of confident pride, but of some indignation, at the insinuation which my query seemed to contain, of a possibility that he might be unsupplied with the commodity in question. He made his exit-and, really, such accounts had I heard of