ments. Ten engravings, of superior excellence, illustrate the writings of several authors more or less known to fame; and as the pictures are generally the most attractive points in the formation of the annuals, we shall pay some extra attention to the embellishments of this beautiful work. The presentation vignette is a wood engraving of remarkable softness-it is executed by J. A. Adams, of New York, an artist who, in his peculiar line, far excels all cotemporaries; indeed, we defy the most celebrated engraver in England to equal this effort of Adams' genius-and we are thought to know something of the subject we are dictating upon. Adams has not yet achieved the fame that he deserves; he is unknown to his countrymen-one tithe of his merit has made the fortune of many artists—but wood engraving is not sufficiently encouraged in America, although we believe that the sight of the admirable print in question will materially assist its progress. It possesses all the chasteness and delicate tinting of the softest steel engraving, and is calculated to deceive the eyes of experienced lovers of the art. The merit of the design belongs to Chapman, who has painted the subjects of five of the best plates. The frontispiece, "The Expected Canoe," is beautifully engraved, and forms a delightful picture, but there is an awkwardness in the position of the squaw's left arm that gives her a constrained appearance, and sadly militates against the general effect. The vignette in the title page, of “Cupids carving Mementos upon a Pumpkin," is one of the most delightful specimens of engraving, and redounds nobly to the credit of Gallandet. "The Only Daughter" is a good picture, painted by Newton after the manner of the old Dutch masters, and well engraved by Andrews. "The Token" is Chapman's best picture-an Indian maiden is playing with a belt of wampum on the banks of a romantic waterfall. It is engraved as a vignette by Charles Jewett, who has done full justice to the painter's design. The next plate is Chingford Church, in England, and is, undoubtedly, the gem of the volume-it is a perfect picture—a good specimen of the richness of English landscape, materially aided by the ivy-covered tower of the old church and the sun-lit eddies of the little stream that skirts the humble resting place of the village dead. This beautiful picture is from the pencil of Brown and the burin of Smillie-they may both be honestly proud of their work. We do not like Healy's "Young American on the Alps." There is nothing characteristic in the figure or the face of the New England youth, and the back ground gives but a poor idea of Alpine scenery. Cushman's engraving deserves the highest praise. "The Last of his Tribe," is the poorest picture in the book, both in design and execution. There is an evident straining after effect in the position of the dying chief and the scathed tree that resolves itself into positive failure; and although the illustrating poetry says something about the moon and stars, it is impossible to define the nature of the light from the plate; the clouds are woolly, and the arrangement of shade is extremely unnatural, whether it be as Falstaff says, " By day or night, or any kind of light." "The Fairies in America" is another of Chapman's beautiful vignettes, exquisitely engraved by Smillie; the elfin flight over the waters of the quiet lake, "the moon-touched crags," and the red man startled in pursuit of his prey, are equally well-defined and delicately touched. The editor of the forthcoming "Writings of Washington," has favored the proprietors of the Token with impressions from one of his plates, "Martha Washington," painted by Woollaston, and engraved by Cheney from the original in possession of G. W. P. Custis, of Arlington House. It is a splendid print, and augurs well for the nature of the illustrations of the above named national work.

Of the literary portion of the work, we must be brief in our notice, but shall, most likely, revert to it again. Miss Sedgwick has a tale in her best manner-the author of "Twice told Tales" has several articles, one of which we copy at the conclusion of our remarks. "Jacques le Laid" is a pleasant sketch, and Pierpoint has achieved a spirited essay upon "The Wonders of the Deep." The author of "The Blind Boy" has " A Tale of Humble Life"-it is a thrilling narrative, well told. Grenville Mellen and Hastings Weld have both illustrated Chapman's picture of "The Fairies" in nervous verse; and Mrs. Hale, the accomplished editress of The Lady's Book, contributes a pretty and affecting story, called "The Love Marriage," with some delightful verses upon "A Dead Oak Tree." It is impossible to enumerate the rest of the articles, nearly fifty in number; but next month we may find room to mete a fuller justice to this creditable and pleasing work.

THE SHAKER BRIDAL.

One day, in the sick chamber of Father Ephraim, who had been forty years the presiding elder over the Shaker settlement at Goshen, there was an assemblage of several of the chief men of the sect. Individuals had come from the rich establishment at Lebanon, from Canterbury, Harvard, and Alfred, and from all the other localities, where this strange people have fertilized the rugged hills of New England by their systematic industry. An elder was likewise there, who had made a pilgrimage of a thousand miles from a village of the faithful in Kentucky, to visit his spiritual kindred, the children of the sainted Mother Ann. He had partaken of the homely abundance of their tables, had quaffed the far-famed Shaker cider, and had joined in the sacred dance, every step of which is believed to alienate the enthusiast from earth, and bear him onward to heavenly purity and bliss. His brethren of the north had now courteously invited him to be present on an occasion when the concurrence of every eminent member of their community was peculiarly desirable.

The venerable Father Ephraim sat in his easy-chair, not only hoary-headed and infirm with age, but worn down by a lingering disease, which, it was evident, would very soon transfer his patriarchal staff to other hands. At his footstool stood a man and woman, both clad in the Shaker garb.

"My brethren," said Father Ephraim to the surrounding elders, feebly exerting himself to utter these few words, "here are the son and daughter to whom I would commit the trust, of which Providence is about to lighten my weary shoulders. Read their faces, I pray you, and say whether the inward movement of the spirit hath guided my choice aright."

Accordingly, each elder looked at the two candidates with a most scrutinizing gaze. The man, whose name was Adam Colburn, had a face sunburnt with labor in the fields, yet intelligent, thoughtful, and traced with cares enough for a whole lifetime, though he had barely reached middle age. There was something severe in his aspect, and a rigidity throughout his person, characteristics that caused him generally to be taken for a schoolmaster; which vocation, in fact, he had formerly exercised for several years. The woman, Martha Pierson, was somewhat above thirty, thin and pale, as a Shaker sister almost invariably is, and not entirely free from that corpse-like appearance, which the garb of the sisterhood is so well calculated to impart. "This pair are still in the summer of their years," observed the elder from Harvard, a shrewd old man. "I would like better to see the hoar frost of autumn on their heads. Methinks, also, they will be exposed to peculiar temptations, on account of the carnal desires which have heretofore subsisted between them."

"Nay, brother," said the elder from Canterbury, "the hoar frost, and the black frost, hath done its work on Brother Adam and Sister Martha, even as we sometimes discern its traces in our cornfields, while they are yet green. And why should we question the wisdom of our venerable Father's purpose, although this pair, in their early youth, have loved one another as the world's people love? Are there not many brethren and sisters among us, who have lived long together in wedlock, yet, adopting our faith, find their hearts purified from all but spiritual affection?"

Whether or no the early loves of Adam and Martha had rendered it inexpedient that they should now preside together over a Shaker village, it was certainly most singular that such should be the final result of many warm and tender hopes. Children of neighboring families, their affection was older even than their school-days; it seemed an innate principle, interfused among all their sentiments and feelings, and not so much a distinct remembrance, as connected with their whole volume of remembrances. But, just as they reached a proper age for their union, misfortunes had fallen heavily on both, and made it necessary that they should resort to personal labor for a bare subsistence. Even under these circumstances, Martha Pierson would probably have consented to unite her fate with Adam Colburn's, and, secure of the bliss of mutual love, would patiently have awaited the less important gifts of fortune. But Adam, being of a calm and cau tious character, was loath to relinquish the advantages which a single man possesses for raising himself in the world. Year after year, therefore, their marriage had been deferred. Adam Colburn had followed many vocations, had travelled far, and seen much of the world and of life. Martha had earned her bread some times as a sempstress, sometimes as help to a farmer's wife, sometimes as schoolmistress of the village children, sometimes as a nurse or watcher of the sick, thus acquiring a varied experience, the ultimate use of which she little anticipated. But nothing had gone prosperously with either of the lovers; at no subsequent moment would matrimony have been so prudent a measure, as when they had first parted, in the opening bloom of life, to seek a better fortune. Still they had held fast their mutual faith. Martha might have been the wife of a man, who sat among the senators of his native state, and Adamn could have won the hand, as he had unintentionally won the heart, of a rich and comely widow. But neither of them desired good fortune, save to share it with the other.

At length that calm despair, which occurs only in a strong and somewhat stubborn character, and yields to no second spring of hope, settled down on the spirit of Adam Colburn. He sought an interview with Martha, and proposed that they should join the Society of Shakers. The converts of this sect are oftener driven within its hospitable gates by worldly misfortune, than drawn thither by fanaticism, and are received without inquisition as to their motives. Martha, faithful stili, had placed her hand in that of her lover, and accompa nied him to the Shaker village. Here the natural capacity of each, cultivated and strengthened by the difficulties of their previous lives, had soon gained them an important rank in the Society, whose members are generally below the ordinary standard of intelligence. Their faith and feelings had, in some degree, become assimilated to those of their fellow-worshippers. Adam Colburn gradually acquired reputation, not only in the management of the temporal affairs of the Society, but as a clear and efficient preacher of their doctrines. Martha was not less distinguished in the duties proper to her sex. Finally, when the infirmities of Father Ephraim had admonished him to seek a successor in his patriarchal office, he thought of Adam and Martha, and proposed to renew, in their persons, the primitive form of Shaker government, as established by Mother Ann. They were to be the Father and Mother of the village. The simple ceremony, which would constitute them such, was now to be performed.

“Son Adam, and daughter Martha," said the venerable Father Ephraim, fixing his aged eyes piercingly upon them, "if ye can conscientiously undertake this charge, speak, that the brethren may not doubt of your fitness."

I came

"Father," replied Adam, speaking with the calmness of his character, "I came to your village a disappointed man, weary of the world, worn out with continual trouble, seeking only a security against evil for tune, as I had no hope of good. Even my wishes of worldly success were almost dead within me. hither as a man might come to a tomb, willing to lie down in its gloom and coldness, for the sake of its peace and quiet. There was but one earthly affection in my breast, and it had grown calmer since my youth; so that I was satisfied to bring Martha to be my sister, in our new abode. We are brother and sister; nor would I have it otherwise. And in this peaceful village I have found all that I hope for,--all that I desire. I will strive, with my best strength, for the spiritual and temporal good of our community. My conscience is not doubtful in this matter. I am ready to receive the trust."

"Thou hast spoken well, son Adam," said the Father. "God will bless thee in the office which I am about to resign."

"But our sister!" observed the elder from Harvard; "hath she not likewise a gift to declare her senti

ments?"

But, had she

Martha started, and moved her lips, as if she would have made a formal reply to this appeal. attempted it, perhaps the old recollections, the long-repressed feelings of childhood, youth, and womanhood, might have gushed from her heart, in words that it would have been profanation to utter there.

Adam has spoken," said she, hurriedly; "his sentiments are likewise mine."

But, while speaking these few words, Martha grew so pale, that she looked fitter to be laid in her coffin, than to stand in the presence of Father Ephraim and the elders; she shuddered, also, as if there were some thing awful or horrible in her situation and destiny. It required, indeed, a more than feminine strength of nerve, to sustain the fixed observance of men so exalted and famous throughout the sect, as these were. They had overcome their natural sympathy with human frailties and affections. One, when he joined the Society,

had brought with him his wife and children, but never, from that hour, had spoken a fond word to the former, or taken his best-loved child upon his knee. Another, whose family refused to follow him, had been enabled, such was his gift of holy fortitude,-to leave them to the mercy of the world. The youngest of the elders, a man of about fifty, had been bred from infancy in a Shaker village, and was said never to have clasped a woman's hand in his own, and to have no conception of a closer tie than the cold fraternal one of the sect. Old Father Ephraim was the most awful character of all. In his youth, he had been a dissolute libertine, but was converted by Mother Ann herself, and had partaken of the wild fanaticism of the early Shakers. Tradition whispered, at the firesides of the village, that Mother Ann had been compelled to sear his heart of flesh with a red-hot iron, before it could be purified from earthy passions.

However that might be, poor Martha had a woman's heart, and a tender one, and it quailed within her as she looked round at those strange old men, and from them to the calm features of Adam Colburn. But, perceiving that the elders eyed her doubtfully, she gasped for breath, and again spoke.

"With what strength is left me by my many troubles," said she, "I am ready to undertake this charge, and my best in it."

to do

'My children, join your hands," said Father Ephraim.

They did so. The elders stood up around, and the Father feebly raised himself to a more erect position, but continued sitting in his great chair.

"I have bidden you to join your hands," said he, "not in earthly affection, for ye have cast off its chains for ever; but as brother and sister in spiritual love, and helpers of one another in your allotted task. Teach unto others the faith which ye have received. Open wide your gates,-I deliver you the keys thereof,-open them wide to all who will give up the iniquities of the world, and come hither to lead lives of purity and peace. Receive the weary ones, who have known the vanity of earth,-receive the little children, that they may never learn that miserable lesson. And a blessing be upon your labors; so that the time may hasten on, when the mission of Mother Ann shall have wrought its full effect,-when children shall no more be born and die, and the last survivor of mortal race, some old and weary man like me, shall, see the sun go down, never more to rise on a world of sin and sorrow!"

The aged Father sank back exhausted, and the surrounding elders deemed, with good reason, that the hour was come, when the new heads of the village must enter on their patriarchal duties. In their attention to Father Ephraim, their eyes were turned from Martha Pierson, who grew paler and paler, unnoticed even by Adam Colburn. He, indeed, had withdrawn his hand from hers, and folded his arms with a sense of satisfied ambition. But paler and paler grew Martha by his side, till, like a corpse in its burial clothes, she sank down at the feet of her early lover; for, after many tria's firmly borne, her heart could endure the weight of its desolate agony no longer.

of the contents.

THE LITERARY SOUVENIR, FOR 1838. Edited by William E. Burton. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart. As we are guilty of the entire concoction of this annual, with the exception of some very pretty pieces of illustrative poetry by our friend, Charles West Thomson, we cannot be expected to say any thing of the nature Our business now is with the booksellers' portion of the work-the unrivalled elegance of the binding-and the number and nature of the embellishments. It is indisputably the handsomest looking book that has emanated from an American store; and may rank in appearance with the largest and the costliest of English annuals. Sixteen plates grace the table of contents-the frontispiece depicts a group of lovely ladies, painted by Parris, and deliciously engraved by J. B. Forrest. The vignette on the title page is a gem of the first water—we have never seen any thing to excel it, and congratulate Mr. Tucker on the splendid effects he has produced, not only in this instance, but in several other subjects committed to his care. We are not able to spare time for the entire supervision of the plates; but as we wish to render a full notice of the Annuals to our readers, we shall extract a few anecdotes from an article entitled "My First Fight-a Chapter on Duelling."

Two backwoodsmen, in the vicinity of the Titti-bi-wasse, in Michigan, "were hunting in the woods, and found a cow that doubtless had strayed from some unfortunate settler. The rival claims to the beast produced a quarrel, and the friends of the parties worked it up to a pretty big chunk of a fight. They had no weapons but the rifle and the hunting-knife-but to make the affair perfectly honorable, it was agreed that the combatants should be placed over night in a couple of newly built log houses erected within ball-range of each other. Plenty of ammunition was to be supplied, but the firing was not to commence before sunrise and to cease after sundown. The rival cow-claimers were at liberty to storm each other's hut, or to remain ensconced behind the open logs, for the mud had not been applied to the crevices, but all animosity was to cease with the daylight; if either of them received a wound, the other was to be considered the better man, and to have the undoubted ownership of the cow. If neither were hurt, the animal was to be sold, and the proceeds divided between the combatants, deducting the expenses of a general treat. The winner of the toss for first choice of shanties selected the building in the north-eastern corner of the lot, leaving his antagonist to fix himself in the other, which occupied the south-western. His friends rated him soundly for the apparent silliness of his choice, and declared that he would have the sun in his eyes for the longest part of the day. The back-woods. men took their places; our friend of the first choice barricaded the door of his hut, and, throwing himself on the floor, slept soundly through the night. At day-break his antagonist began to blaze away at every likely crack or available chink, but was not favored with a shot in return. He was afraid to venture on storming his enemy's entrenchment, lest he should be picked off when out of shelter. The sun was rapidly descending in the western sky, when the back-woodsman, who had hitherto been silent, cautionsly raised his head from the protection of the bottom log, and made an observation. As he had cunningly anticipated, the sun was

completely behind his antagonist's hat, and shining through the crevices of both the walls, developed the interior to his gaze. He saw the shadow of his rival's body in the middle of the luminous cracks of the western side of the hut-the first shot took effect—and he won the victory and the cow.

Many a life has been saved by the exertion of a little presence of mind, when the circumstances would have made even hope despair. An Irish author, either Grattan or Sir Jonah Barrington, states that an officer had received a deadly insult, and challenged his man to fight a duel with the muzzles of the pistols inserted in each other's mouths. They met, and were placed in the position agreed on, breast to breast, awaiting the sig nal. One of the seconds was about to give the word, when the other, pitying the situation of his friend, called out, "Jack, look here." Jack turned his head at the summons just as the fatal word was given; his adversary's ball went through his cheek, doing him little hurt, but his fire had been effective, and his rival dropped at his feet.

A duel lately took place at an hotel in France; it was an affair of most inveterate hatred, necessary to be settled that instant; each person was to place his pistol to his antagonist's breast, and both were to fire at a given signal. One of the combatants requested permission to retire for three minutes, for the purpose of putting his name to his will which was unsigned in his room up stairs. He returned at the expiration of the time appointed and killed his antagonist, whose fire he received without material injury. The leisure granted by the courtesy of his opponent's second he had employed in putting on four or five silk vests; he was perfectly aware that the bullet could not penetrate the web, and he escaped with a slight contusion.

In England, the practice of duelling is rapidly on the decline; and in France, a decree has been made, assigning life annuities to the widows or orphans of fallen duellists, to be paid out of the estates of the respective adversaries. This custom will shortly stop the fashion of fighting for trifles; the honor of the quar relsome will not be so sensitive when its vindication affects the pocket.

Shortly after the restoration of Louis the Eighteenth to the throne of the Bourbons, an English officer was dining at the Restaurant Les Freres Provenceaux, in the Palais Royale. A chef d'escadron, belonging to a regiment of chasseurs, was dining in the same box. Both of the officers were drinking the same sort of wine, and, in mistake, the Englishman used the wrong bottle. An altercation ensued-the Englishman apologized, but the chasseur gratified his national antipathy by indulging in gross and violent invectives. The Englishman, about to retire, had poured out his last glass of wine, but justly incensed at the Frenchman's abuse, threw the liquid into his face. The chasseur hurled a bottle at his opponent's head, and, in return, was knocked over the table. Such an outrage could only be washed away by blood—but it was dark night, and the impatient Frenchman demanded instant satisfaction.

Duelling had been strictly forbidden within the purlieus of the court. To obviate this difficulty, it was pro posed by one of the by-standers that messieurs should retire alone to a private room-that a brace of pistols should be procured, but only one of them should be loaded. That the combatants should tess for the first choicethe person winning the toss to have a handkerchief tied over his eyes, and be led to the table whereon the pistols were laid-the first pistol touched by him in his choice, to be his weapon in the duel. That the muz zles of the pistols be then turned towards their own heads, and the holder of the loaded pistol would blow out his own brains.

This method of defeating the court regulation was agreed to by both parties; they retired to a small room on the attic story, and by the light of a small wax candle loaded the pistol. The choice was fairly made; the chef d'escadron won the privilege of first selection, and with the impetuosity of his nation, had no sooner obtained the pistol than he dashed the muzzle against his brow and pulled the trigger. He had selected the uncharged pistol! The Englishman calmly said, as he thrust the ramrod into the barrel, "I believe I have the right one."

After a pause, distressingly severe, he inquired of the Frenchman, if he had any children.

"I have."

"So have I; a wife and seven children-may God shelter and protect them, for they have lost their earthly stay. May I encroach upon your feelings for the allowance of one hour to settle my affairs, and write my beloved ones a last farewell ?"

"I will give you all your life!" said the gallant Frenchman, "and beg to retract my illiberal aspersions on your brave nation. I feel that I have been to blame; accept my apologies, and let us be friends for ever. Yes! "you must live for me; for your amiable lady, and for your children, who are so dear to you.”

"I thank you, sir," said the Englishman, with a formal bow, but, by the laws of the duello, my life is justly forfeited, and you will not find me neglectful of my honor."

Early in the morning the chasseur received a letter, informing him that when he perused it the writer would be no more. He regretted that imperious necessity had compelled him to be so long in arranging his affairs, and begged the kind remembrance of his friend!

It seems that when the Englishman had written this letter, he had gone quietly to bed, which, by his orders, had first been warmed; and after half an hour's repose, this victim to imperious honor had blown his brains out. The Frenchman shrugged up his shoulders, took a pinch of snuff, and said it was a pity, for he was un homme brave.

An affair of honor may sometimes be turned into ridicule by the agency of the second, who, not deeming the cause of sufficient importance for the shedding of blood, descends the little step of division between the fearful and the foolish, and burlesques the whole proceeding. In a case of this description in Ireland, the enraged combatant turned suddenly round, and shot his friend and second through the heart.

In the latter part of the last century, a duel was fought in England, which, from the high rank of the parties, attracted considerable attention. Colonel Lennox, afterwards Duke of Richmond, the head of the house of Stuart, conceived himself insulted by the Duke of York, the second son of the King of England, and commander-in-chief of the army. Court etiquette and military discipline prohibited the chance of an honorable adjustment, but the Duke, before all the officers assembled on parade, informed Colonel Lennox that he disdained to shelter himself beneath his rank as prince, or to seek protection in his military dignity. A meeting took place, the Colonel's shot rumpled the side curls of the Duke, and an amicable explanation ensued. The nation boasted of the courage of its officer in challenging the Duke, and of the Duke's condescen sion in giving the required meeting. It now appears that the pistols used in this memorable duel were loaded with bullets made of cork! What an insult to the blood-bolstered code of honor that drove the colonel to the field!

A comedian of some reputation lately hoaxed a blustering fool of a fellow, who had been bragging of con. quests that he never made, and exhibiting love letters from ladies who never existed. One of the invented names, Thomson, was attached to a series of letters of the most ardent and romantic nature. Wealth, person, heart, were all offered for his acceptance; he publicly displayed the supposed evidences of his success; described the tender Thomson as a romantic heiress of sweet sixteen, and supposed that he must run away with the little love-sick devil, or he should never have any rest from her importunities.

His acquaintances suspected that the letters had been manufactured by the braggart himself. The actor undertook to punish his impudence and conceit, and sent him a letter from John Thomson, senior, calling the lover to a severe account for secret correspondence with his daughter, a maiden under age. The boasting Adonis was alarmed-Thomson was a title of some frequency in the directories-and he believed that he had accidently hit upon a coincidence in name and circumstances. He consulted the actor, and commissioned him to render any possible apology, but the imaginary Thomson was implacable; and the terrified wretch consented to settle the dispute in the field rather than confess he had invented the whole story, and fabricated the delicious billets doux.

The actor prevailed upon two of his comrades to personate papa Thompson and his second. Shots, from barrels guiltless of bullets, were exchanged; and Thomson fell to the earth, shot through the head-so the letter writer thought, when he beheld the face of his antagonist covered with blood, and heard him shriek and groan as he writhed upon the ground in mortal agony. The comedian, who acted as the second of the hoaxed, led him from the ground, and concealed him in a garret till nightfall. He was then informed that Thomson had gone defunct-that the coroner's inquest had returned a verdict of wilful murder, and that a large reward was offered for his apprehension. The poor wretch was frightened out of his wits; and, by the advice of the player, agreed to hide himself in a crazy hay loft, and depend upon the chances afforded to the other of bringing him provisions unperceived.

He was compelled to endure this solitary confinement and hard living for several days as a punishment for his vanity and lies. The actor, with his co-mates who had personated Thomson and his second, accompanied a host of the victim's acquaintances on a visit to the stable one morning, when the unwashed and unshaven Adonis was liberated. An explanation ensued, he was compelled to confess his delinquencies-and being suffered to depart from the city, was never seen again.

The following is the termination of a paper called "A Day on Lake Erie."

The sun was setting with a splendor and a glory unequalled even in "the golden skies of fair Italia's land." Masses of clouds assumed every possible variety of wondrous form and gorgeous teint. Dark and mountainous appearances in the fore part faded in the centre to a clear and sunlit distance. Grades of light and shade heightened the illusion. Rocky steeps and castellated crags frowned over an extensive valley of inconceivable loveliness; and streams of shining silver meandered through the purple and yellow fields. It was a most remarkable combination of effect, and elicited general surprise and admiration. The whole of the passengers collected on the after part of the upper deck; and when the first expressions of delight had passed away, they gazed in silence upon this striking development of the beauties of nature.

One of the passengers, a stout, farmer-looking man, with his wife and daughter hanging on his arms, took off his hat, and said, in a loud tone-"These are thy works, Parent of Good! The heavens declare thy glory, Lord, and the firmament proclaims thy handy works. Blessed be the name of the Lord God!"

These apposite quotations forcibly struck the minds of the standers-by; and, with one accord, the hats of the male passengers were removed from their heads. A holy feeling of reverential awe pervaded our bosoms as "we looked through nature up to nature's God."

A thin, cadaverous-looking fellow took a hymn book from his pocket, and in a snuffling tone, requested his brethren to assist him in improving the occasion. He mounted the top of the rudder post, and gave out two lines of a hymn in a canting drawling manner, and led off the singing at the top of his voice. One or two of his friends joined in the discord, but the rest of the passengers put on their hats, and turned jeeringly away. There," said my friend, the Colonel," you may note the difference between the effects of genuine impul sive piety and the second-hand cant of the Pharisees-the outward spiritual sign and the inward spiritual grace. The righteous overmuch thrusts his worldly sanctity down your throat in disagreeable doses-but the voice of pure religion emanates from the heart, and is sure to find a responsive chord."

Passing forward, I overheard one of the deck hands thus deliver himself" in communion sweet" with the firemen. Them there sarm singers aboard boats is never no good. I went as hired help to two on 'em west o' the mountains, and down Mississippi; they were raal stingy and mean-they'd pick a pismire off the ground and steal the crumb out of his mouth. They used to preach and pray and sing all day, and go out and steal a nigger at night. They got catched in Looseyanney, and Lynched right away; and I guess, if I hadn't a streeked, I should a been Lynched too, for keeping bad company."

The old Colonel bade me farewell, and, dreading the effects of the night hrecze on the lake, retired to his berth. The lights of Cleveland, my port of destination, soon appeared in view. I selected my portmanteau from the general mass of luggage; and while inquiring for a porter, I saw a police officer busily engaged in handcuffing the psalm singer. The constable had been some time on the watch for his victim, who was a principal agent of the western gang of counterfeiters.

THE CHRISTIAN KEEPSAKE AND MISSIONARY ANNUAL, for 1838. Edited by the Rev. John A. Clarke. Philadelphia. William Marshall & Co.

THIS beautiful little Annual (we say little only in reference to the size of the gorgeous tomes we have been describing) deserves the widest range of popularity that can be accorded to a meritorious and handsome work. Its contents breathe a spirit of pure and holy love for the bipeds of this erratic world-a delicate and genuine tone