the gifted Wilson, and, as a painter of animals, to take his place by the side of the equally gifted Barrabaud.

From England, Mr. Audubon proceeded to France, where he received the homage of the most distinguished men of science of that learned nation; among the rest, of that gigantic but graceful genius, Cuvier, the glance of whose eye into the great valley of death, has infused life into the dry bones of a thousand years.

When he returned to his native land, it was only to renew with more burning ardor, his labors in the woods. His first expedition was to the coast of Florida, where, amid flocks of snowy pelicans and cormorants, tortoises and flying-fish, he laid up vast treasures of knowledge for his forthcoming volumes. Having examined every part of the coast, and of the different. keys, passing even to the Tortugas Islands, he turned to Charlestown, S. C., anxious to bend his course to the northeast, that he might keep pace with the birds during the migra tions. Sickness detained him for the greater part of the summer at Boston, but having recovered about the middle of August, he left his Boston friends on his way eastward. He explored the whole of the State of Maine, the British province of New Brunswick, a portion of the Canadas, and then, when there were no more prizes in those districts to carry away, turned his steps to the dreary shores of ice-bound Labrador. His researches into the habits of the birds, beasts, and men of this hyperborean region, were successful, and he returned, rich with materials, to the abode of his family and friends. Of the industry with which he pushed his inquiries, and of the startling and touching adventures to which his various excursions gave rise his volumes are full of entertaining and instructive proof.

A NAME.

The card-built house amused our infant age-
The child was pleased-but is the man more sage?
A breath could level childhood's tottering toy;
See manhood, effort, art, and time employ,

To build that brittle name, a whisper can destroy!

There is a Book where nought our name can spot
If we ourselves refuse to fix the blot;

'Tis kept by ONE that sets alike at nought
The tale with malice or with flattery fraught—

He reads the heart, and sees the whisper in the thought.

CURE OF A HYPOCHONDRIAC.

BY SEBA SMITH.

As Mr. Seth Woodsun was mowing one morning in his lower haying field, and his eldest son, Obediah, a smart boy of thirteen, was opening the mown grass to the sun, Mr. Woodsum looked up towards his house, and beheld his little daughter Harriet, ten years of age, running up toward him with her utmost speed. As she came up, he perceived she was greatly agitated; tears were running down her cheeks, and she had scarcely breath enough left to speak.

"Oh, father," she faintly articulated, "mother is dreadful sick; she's on the bed, and says she shall die before you get there."

Mr. Woodsum was a man of sober, sound mind, and calm nerves; but he had what sometimes happens in this cold and loveless world of ours, a tender attachment for his wife, which made the message of the little girl fall upon his heart like a dagger. He dropped his scythe, and ran with great haste to the house. Obediah, who was at the other end of the field, seeing this unusual movement of his father, dropped his fork, and ran with all his might, and the two entered the house almost at the same time.

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Mr. Woodsum hastened to the bed-side, and took his wife's hand. My dear Sally," said he, "what is the matter ?” "What is the matter?" echoed Mrs. Woodsum, with a plaintive groan. "I shouldn't think you would need to ask what is the matter, Mr. Woodsum. Don't you see I am dying?" Why, no, Sally, you don't look as if you were dying. What is the matter? How do you feel?"

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Oh, I sha'nt live till night," said Mrs. Woodsum, with a heavy sigh; "I am going fast."

Mr. Woodsum, without waiting to make further inquiries, told Obediah to run and jump on to the horse, and ride over after Dr. Fairfield, and get him to come over as quick as he could come. "Tell him I am afraid your mother is dying. If the doctor's horse is away off in the pasture, ask him to take our horse, and come right away over, while you go and catch his." Obediah, with tears in his eyes, and his heart in his mouth, flew as though he had wings added to his feet, and in three

1

minutes time was mounted upon Old Gray, and galloping with full speed toward Dr. Fairfield's.

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My dear," said Mr. Woodsum, leaning his head upon the pillow, "how do you feel? "how do you feel? What makes you think you are dying?" And he tenderly kissed her forehead as he spoke, and pressed her hand to his bosom.

"Oh, Samuel," for she generally called him by his Christián name, when under the influence of tender emotions, "Oh, Samuel, I feel dreadfully. I have pains darting through my head, and most all over me ; and I feel dizzy, and can't hardly see; and my heart beats as though it would come through my side. And besides, I feel as though I was dying. I am sure] can't live till night; and what will become of my poor chil dren?" And she sobbed heavily, and burst into a flood of tears.

Mr. Woodsum was affected. He could not bring himself to believe that his wife was in such immediate danger of dissolution as she seemed to apprehend. He thought she had no appearance of a dying person; but still her earnest and posi tive declarations, that she should not live throughout the day, sent a chill through his veins, and a sinking to his heart, which no language has power to describe. Mr. Woodsum was as ignorant of medicine as a child; he therefore did not attempt to do anything to relieve his wife, except to try to soothe her feelings by kind and encouraging words, till the doctor arrived. The half hour which elapsed, from the time Obediah started, till the doctor came, seemed to Mr. Woodsum almost an age. He repeatedly went from the bed-side to the door, to look and see if the doctor was anywhere near, and as often returned to hear his wife groan, and say she was sinking fast, and could not stand it many minutes longer.

At length Dr. Fairfield rode up to the door, on Mr. Woodsum's Old Gray, and with saddle-bags in hand, hastened into the house. A brief examination of the patient convinced him that it was a decided case of hypochondria, and he soon spoke encouraging words to her, and told her although she was considerably unwell, he did not doubt she would be better in a little while.

"Oh, doctor, how can you say so?" said Mrs. Woodsum; "don't you see I am dying? I can't possibly live till night; I am sinking very fast, doctor. I shall never see the sun rise again. My heart sometimes almost stops its beating now, and my feet and hands are growing cold. But I must see my children once more; do let 'em come in and bid me farewell." Here she was so overwhelmed with sobs a tears as to prevent her saying more.

The doctor, perceiving it was in vain to talk or try to reason with her, assured her that as long as there was life there was hope, and told her he would give her some medicine that he did not doubt would help her. He accordingly administered the drugs usually approved by the faculty in such cases, and telling her he would call and see her again in a day or two, he left the room. As he went out, Mr. Woodsum followed him, and desired to know in private his real opinion of the case. The doctor assured him he did not consider it at all alarming. It was an ordinary case of hypochondria, and with suitable treatment the patient would undoubtedly soon be better,

"This is a case," continued the doctor, "in which the mind needs to be administered to as much as the body. Divert hèr attention as much as possible to cheerful objects; let her be surrounded by agreeable company: give her a light, but generous and nutritive diet; and as soon as may be, get her to take gentle exercise in the open air, by riding on horseback, or running about the fields and gathering fruits and flowers in company with lively and cheerful companions. Follow these directions, and continue to administer the medicines I have ordered, and I think Mrs. Woodsum will soon enjoy good health again." Mr. Woodsum felt much relieved after hearing the doctor's opinion and prescriptions, and bade the kind physician good morning with a tolerably cheerful countenance. Most assiduously did he follow the doctor's directions, and in a few days he had the happiness to see his beloved wife again enjoying comfortable health, and pursuing her domestic duties with cherfulness.

.

But, alas! his sunshine of hope was destined soon to be obscured again by clouds of sorrow and disappointment. It was not long before some change in the weather, and changes in her habits of living, and neglect of proper exercise in the open air, brought on a return of Mrs. Woodsum's gloom, and despondency, in all their terrific power. Again she was sighing and weeping on the bed, and again Mr. Woodsum was hastily summoned from the field, and leaving his plough in mid-furrow, ran with breathless anxiety to the house, where the same scenes were again witnessed which we have already described. Not only once or twice, but repeatedly week after week, and month after month, these alarms were given, and followed by similar results. Every relapse seemed to be more severe than the last, and on each occasion Mrs. Woodsum was more positive than ever that she was on her death-bed, and that there was no longer any help for her.

On one of these occasions, so strong was her impression that

her dissolution was near, and so anxious did she appear to inake every preparation for death, and with such solemn earnestness did she attend to certain details preparatory to her leaving her family, for ever, that Mr. Woodsum almost lost the hope that usually attended him through these scenes, and felt, more than ever before, that what he had so often feared, was indeed about to become a painful and awful reality. Most tenderly did Mrs. Woodsum touch upon the subject of her separation from her husband and children.

"Our poor children—what will become of them when I am gone? And you, dear Samuel, how can I bear the thought of leaving you? I could feel reconciled to dying, if it was not for the thoughts of leaving you and the children. They will have nobody to take care of them, as a mother would, poor things; and then you will be so lonesome-it breaks my heart to think. of it."

Here, her feelings overpowered her, and she was unable to proceed any further. Mr. Woodsum was for some time too much affected to make any reply. At last, summoning all his fortitude, and as much calmness, as he could, he told her if it was the will of Providence that she should be separated from them, he hoped her last hours would not be pained with anxious solicitude about the future welfare of the family. It was true, the world would be a dreary place to him when she was gone; but he should keep the children with him, and with the blessing of heaven he thought he should be able to make them comfortable and happy.

"Well, there's one thing, dear Samuel," said Mrs. Woodsum, "that I feel it my duty to speak to you about." And she pressed his hand in hers, and looked most solemnly and earnestly in his face. "You know, my dear," she continued, "how sad and desolate a family of children always is, when deprived of a mother. They may have a kind father, and kind friends, but nobody can supply the place of a mother. I feel as if it would be your duty-and I could not die in peace if I didn't speak of it-I feel, dear Samuel, as if it would be your duty, as soon after I am gone as would appear decent, to marry some good and kind woman, and bring her into the family to be the mother of our poor children, and to make your home happy. Promise me that you will do this, and I think it will relieve me of some of the distress I feel at the thought of dying."

This remark was, to Mr. Woodsum, most unexpected and most painful. It threw an anguish into his heart, such as he had never experienced till that moment. It forced upon his contemplation a thought that never before occurred to him.