The captain then took his manifest out of his pocket-book, and showed us the words, "Sir St. John St. Ledger, of Sevenoaks, Kent." "Pho!" said Mrs. Cummings. "Where's the trouble in speaking that name, if you only knew the right way-I have heard it a hundred times-and even seen it in the newspapers. This must be the very gentleman that my cousin George's wife is always talking about. She has a brother that lives near his estate, a topping apothecary. Why, 'tis easy enough to say his name, if you say it as we do in England." "And how is that?" asked the captain; "what can you make of Sir St. John St. Ledger?" "Why, Sir Singeon Sillinger, to be sure," replied Mrs. Cummings "I am confident he would have answered to that name. Sir Singeon Sillinger of Sunnock-cousin George's wife's brother lives close by Sunnock in a yellow house with a red door." "And have I," said the captain, laughing, "so carefully kept his name to myself, during the whole passage, for fear we should have had to call him Sir St. John St. Ledger, when all the while we might have said Sir Singeon Sillinger." "To be sure you might," replied Mrs. Cummings, looking proud of the opportunity of displaying her superior knowledge of something. In a short time a steamboat came alongside, into which we removed ourselves accompanied by the captain and the letter bags; and we proceeded up to the city, where Mr. Fenton and myself were met on the wharf, I need not tell how, and by whom. DROPPING LEAVES.-MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. The leaves are dropping, dropping, As they tremble from the stem, With a stillness so appalling And my heart goes down with them! Yes, I see them floating round me Like the hopes that still have bound me, They are floating through the stillness, But the proud tree stands up prouder, Then I thought that tree is human, Then its great roots gather'd fragrance, In kindred trust and love- But the very dews of summer And touched those leaves with blight. Then the frost came stealing earthward, Like a ghost upon the night. When the frost had done its death-work, Ah! the roots withdrew their nurture, While the tree stood firm and high; When the leaves had lost their greenness, Lo, it cast them off to die! Then I thought those leaves were weary, And thrilled with human pain, As they fell so cold and dreary Beneath the beating rain. While the boughs waved slow and grimly, Like shadows on the day! Then my soul went sadly after, As my hopes had taken flight. TO THE EVENING WIND.-WILLIAM CULLEN Bryant. Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea! Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round Go, rock the little woodbird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide, old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone: That they who near the churchyard willows stray, And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, May think of gentle souls that pass'd away, Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep' And they who stand about the sick man's bed, Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful, to his burning brow. Go-but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, THE MARINER'S HYMN.-MRS. SOUTHEY. Launch thy bark, mariner! Look to the weather-bow, "What of the night, watchman? "Cloudy-all quiet No land yet-all's right!" Danger may be At an hour when all seemeth Securest to thee. How! gains the leak so fast? Slacken not sail yet At inlet or island; SENTIMENTAL MUSIC.-FITZ-GREENE HALLEOK. Sounds as of far off bells came on his ears; 'Twas Yankee Doodle, played by Scudder's band. He muttered, as he lingered, listening, Something of freedom, and our happy land; Then sketched, as to his home he hurried fast, This sentimental song-his saddest, and his last: "Young thoughts have music in them, love, And music wanders in the wind "There's music in the forest leaves When summer winds are there, And in the laugh of forest girls The first wild bird that drinks the dew From violets of the spring, Has music in his song, and in The fluttering of his wing. "There's music in the dash of waves, When the swift bark cleaves their foam; There's music heard upon her deck The mariner's song of home |