THE OLD PHILOSOPHER AND THE YOUNG LADY. 305

exquisite pencil that paints the flower of the field? and have I ever detected the secret that gives their brilliant dye to the ruby and the emerald, or the art that enamels the delicate shell?—I observe the sagacity of animals-I call it instinct, and speculate upon its various degrees of approximation to the reason of man; but, after all, I know as little of the cogitations of the brute as he does of mine. When I see a flight of birds overhead, performing their evolutions, or steering their course to some distant settlement, their signals and cries are as unintelligible to me as are the learned languages to an unlettered mechanic: I understand as little of their policy and laws as they do of Blackstone's Commentaries.

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Alas! then, what have I gained by my laborious researches but an humbling conviction of my weakness and ignorance! Of how little has man, at his best estate, to boast! What folly in him to glory in his contracted powers, or to value himself upon his imperfect acquisitions!"

"Well!" exclaimed a young lady, just returned from school," my education is at last finished: indeed, it would be strange if, after five years' hard application, any thing were left incomplete. Happily, it is all over now, and I have nothing to do but exercise my various accomplishments.

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Let me see!-as to French, I am mistress of that,

and speak it, if possible, with more fluency than English. Italian I can read with ease, and pronounce very well, as well at least, and better, than any of my friends; and that is all one need wish for in Italian. Music I have learned till I am perfectly sick of it. But, now that we have a grand piano, it will be delightful to play when we have company. And then there are my Italian songs, which every body allows I sing with taste, and as it is what so few people can pretend to, I am particularly glad that I can. My drawings are universally admired, especially the shells and flowers, which are beautiful, certainly besides this, I have a decided taste in all kinds of fancy work. And then, my dancing and waltzing, in which our master himself owned that he could take me no farther;-just the figure for it— certainly! it would be unpardonable if I did not excel. As to common things, Geography, and History, and Poetry, and Philosophy, thank my stars, I have got through them all! so that I may consider myself not only perfectly accomplished, but also thoroughly well informed.

"Well, to be sure, how much I have fagged through; the only wonder is, that one little head can carry it all!” JANE TAYLOR.

MY LITTLE WIFE.

My little wife has two merry black eyes,
Sweet little, dear little, daisy-faced Jane;

And fifty young lads always deemed her a prize,

And blamed the kind creature for causing them pain.

*

They all knew her pretty,

And some thought her witty,

But sware of sound sense she was faultless and free, Because the fair scoffer

Refused every offer,

And secretly cherished affection for me.

My little wife has a cheek-dimpling smile,
Sweet little, dear little, lily-browed Jane;
A blithe buoyant nature that cares not for toil-
So how could the poor lads from loving refrain?
In spite of her scorning,

They wooed night and morning:

"The wild little coquette," they cried, "is heart-free!" Nor dreamed that she, weeping While others were sleeping,

Oft hopelessly cherished affection for me.

My little wife weekly to the church came,
Sweet little, dear little, mellow-voiced Jane;
Where I, filled with equal devotional flame,
Would glance at her fair face again and again.
Sometimes an emotion,

Not wholly devotion,

A dim nameless thrill, o'er my senses would flee,
And then, growing bolder,

I dared to behold her,

And wish that such sweetness would once think of me.

My little wife often round the church hill,
Sweet little, dear little, neat-footed Jane,
Walked slowly, and lonely, and thoughtful, until
The afternoon bell chimed its call o'er the plain.
And nothing seemed sweeter

To me than to meet her,

And tell her what weather 'twas likely to be,
My heart the while glowing,

The selfish wish growing,

That all her affections were centred in me.

My little wife once ('tis strange, but 'tis true),
Sweet little, dear little, love-troubled Jane,

So deeply absorbed in her day-dreaming grew,
The bell chimed and ceased, yet she heard not its
strain;

And I, walking near her
(May love ever cheer her

Who thinks all such wandering of sin void and free), Strove hard to persuade her

That He who had made her

Had destined her heart-love for no one but me.

My little wife-well, perhaps this was wrong-
Sweet little, dear little, warm-hearted Jane,
Sat on the hill-side till her shadow grew long,
Nor tired of the preacher that thus could detain.
I argued so neatly,

And proved so completely

That none but poor Andrew her husband could be,
She smiled when I bless'd her,

And blush'd when I kiss'd her,

And owned that she loved and would wed none but me.

My little wife is not always quite sure

Sweet little, dear little, heart-cheering Jane-
That joy will not tarry where people are poor,
But only where Wealth and her satellites reign.
In each baby-treasure

She finds a new pleasure:

If purse and demand should by chance disagree,
She smiles, bravely humming,-

"A better time's coming,"

And trusts in good health, in the future, and me.

D. WINGATE.

THE FIRESIDE.

DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In folly's maze advance;

Tho' singularity and pride

Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,

Nor join the giddy dance.