temperature experienced during the Indian Summer, it may still be a powerful auxiliary with other causes in producing that pheno

menon.

Other causes doubtless exist; but those to which we have adverted in this paper are the most probable that we are yet acquainted with. The subject does not admit of demonstration, and in this case, perhaps, he is the most scientific who can give the keenest guess. The true origin of the season which we have attempted to describe, like that of the aboriginal race whose name it bears, will, in all likelihood, ever remain in obscurity.

INSCRIPTION

ON THE DOOR OF A GAMING HOUSE.

Il est trois portes à cet autre,

L'Espoir, l'Infamie, et la Mort.

Par la première on y entre,

Par les deux autres on en sort.

IMITATION.

Here fickle Fortune holds her court,

And to the mansion crowds resort,
Her golden smile to win;

One gate admits the eager bands,

And Hope, the portress, smiling stands,
To let the strangers in.

To lead them forth two gates appear,
But say! what forms are stationed there,

The purpose to attend!

At one Dishonor still abides,

And at the other Death presides,

The gamester's only friend.

SONNETS.
I.

THE COTTAGE BIBLE.*

I stood beneath a humblest hovel's roof,

Though scarce a shelter from the sudden storm,— Wretched and cold and frail, and far aloof

eye.

From human dwelling; nor did other form Of life appear, save one old withered crone, Childless and friendless there who dwelt alone,— Alone with Squalor and pale Misery, While Hunger gaunt looked forth from her dim "Good mother, fate hath hardly dealt with thee!" "OH, NO!"-and pointing to a sheltered nook, Before unnoticed, "I HAVE STILL THAT Book!" Upon my cheek then might that old crone see A blush and tear of penitence and shame,— -I went a humbler man, and wiser, than I came.

II.

то MY MOTHER.

Purest and loveliest of earthly mould-
Again to that dear bosom am I press'd

That gave me life! Blessed be thou, thrice-bless'd!
While thus thy shielding arms thy child enfold,

I feel as in some sanctuary shrine,

Where nought of ill or sorrow may have power

To vex this passion-wasted heart of mine,

Or mar the holy peace of this sweet hour.

Nor life alone to thee my being owes,—

For thou hast been an angel-guide from heaven

To my weak spirit,-and whate'er it knows

Of beauty, truth, or good, from thine was given! Oh, let the sacred tears these lines that blot

Speak the deep language which my feeble words may not!

* A recent incident.