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’
hut denies the existence of more than one
case in the city, and that even imported and
convalescent. The good people, he says, are
getting back to town, and every thing promi
ses as well for the coming season of the beau
monde as for the commercial world. Putnam
has put forth one or two volumes of his
new edition of Washington Irvings complete
works, and the others are to follow monthly.
Speaking of books, I will close this pres
ent writing with all due assurance of regard
to yourself and readers, and another letter
extract, touching the new volume on Charles
Lamb.
“In literature, 1 ’ says my correspondent,
“ there is, of course, very little in movement
at this season. A few books, however, are
forced upon the attention of publishers by
the difference of the London publishing sea
son, the ‘world 1 being in that metropolis at
these months of the year, in which our own
is entirely deserted. A book, you know, that
is published in London, must be immediately
reproduced in New-York, whether it is in de
mand here or not for the first person who
seizes it lias the American monopoly. One
of these waifs and estrays, just now. is the
new book on Charles Lamb, from the editor
ship of Sergeant Talfourd. It is supplemen
tary to the two volumes of ‘ letters 1 published
some twelve years since, and consists of mat
ter withheld at that time from motives of deli
cacy to several persons then living. It has
been latterly known, in conversation, that
Lamb’s home was, at an early period of his
life, the scene of a most violent domestic
tragedy, and that a dark cloud hung over
him through life in the irregular recurring
periods of insanity in his sister, the ‘Bridget
Elia 1 of the Essays. The story is now
told in print, in a few letters of strange force
and simplicity, written by Lamb to Coleridge,
at the time of the first calamitv, and in the
comments, touched by the hand of friendship,
and with the wisdom of the philosopher,
coupled with the nice instinct of the poet and
dramatist from the pen of Talfourd. The
melancholy incident to which I alluded, has
the death of Lamb’s mother, by the hand of
her daughter in a fit of insanity. Os this
sister, Charles Lamb became the guardian,
devoting himself to single life for her sake,
attentive to her moods and dispositions, and
wore this burdensome, though golden chain
of duty, without complaint or flinching, to the
end. For this heroic devotion, he had his re
ward in a life, every sentiment or emotion of
which was guided by a living principle, the
influence of which we may see in the moral
strength and energy of his writings, his sym
pathetic elevation with his favorite themes,
the passionate and eccentric horrors of the old
dramatists: the instinctive sense of the reali
ties of things which appears in his judgment
of Hogarth ; his practical common sense econ
omy and prudence in every day affairs, re
lieved by frolicsome tricks of fancy, which
belonged to the pure region of fancy and im
agination, never disturbing his actual life with
morbid or distempered affections. His life and
writings were the growth of a great idea of
self-denial. This is a study’ which will bene
fit the world while English literature con
tinues to be read. All readers know the
charm of the Essays of Elia; they will here
after be read with something of awe and rev
erence, as a profound picture of human life,
‘ Elysian beauty, melancholy grace.’ ”
FLIT.
1 >
hon, “an ambassador is said to be a man of
virtue sent abroad to tell lies for the advan
tage of his country. 11
Truth is a hardy plant; and when
°nce firmly rooted, it covers the ground so
that error can scarce find root.
“Do you know,” said a cunning
Yankee to a Jew, “that they hang Jews and
jackasses together in Portland’? 11 “Indeed,
•rother— then it’s well you and I are not
there.”
§®®ifa nia i a. ms sis a ‘tr © ass tit s.
©riginal JJoctrr).
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE MOTHER'S CHARGE.
BY LEILA CAMERON.
Oh! gently deal with her whose heart
Is now so trustingly thine own;
Let every coining year impart
Some blessing hitherto unknown.
A woman’s deathless love is thine,
Oh ! guard thou well that jewel rare—
Let it within thy bosom shine,
The gem most fondly treasured there!
I give her to thee, for I know
No falsehood dwells upon thy brow,
And though a mother’s tears may flow,
’T is not that she mistrusts thy vow.
But oh ! deal gently with my child ;
.Redeem thy pledge of changeless truth;
Let her not miss the love that smiled
Upon her childhood and her youth !
Oh ! let that voice which now has power
To move her soul to mirth or tears,
Be gentle still, though storms may lower
And sorrows cloud thy future years !
And may the arm to which she clings,
With woman’s fond, confiding truth,
Sustain her still when sickness brings
The changes that shall steal her youth.
She loves thee still ! oh, see that thou
With kindest care that love repay ;
In after years thy early vow
Breathe fondly as thou hast to-day !
Her life liatli been a sunny one,
No harsh reproof her spirit knows —
Thou who its guardianship hath won
Deal gently with it till its close !
Southern (Eclectic.
“ DON’T GIVE UP THE SHIP.”
BY ROBT. M . CHARLTON.
A hero on his vessel’s deck
Lay welt’ring in his gore,
And tattered sail, and shattered wreck,
Told that the fight was o’er:
But e’en when death had glazed his eye,
Ilis feeble, quivering lip
Still uttered with life’s latest sigh,
“ Don't , don't give up the ship !”
llow often at the midnight hour,
When clouds of guilt and fear
Did o’er my hapless bosom lower,
To drive me to despair,
Those words have rushed upon my mind,
And mounted to my lip,
While whispered Hope, in accents kind,
Don't, don't give tip the ship! ”
O ye whose bark is rudely tossed
Upon life’s stormy sea,
When e’en Hope’s beacon-light seems lost,
And dangers on the lee,
Though howling storms of dark despair
Your luckless vessel strip,
Still lift to Heaven your ardent prayer,
And “ Don't give up the ship! ”
And ye who sigh for Beauty’s smile,
Yet droop beneath her sneer,
Who’d deem all earth a desert isle,
If woman were not there —
If you would hope each honeyed sweet
From her dear lips to sip,
Though she may spurn, thy vows repeat,
And “Don’t give up the ship!”
O, let these words your motto he,
Whatever ills befall;
Though foes beset, and pleasures flee,
And passion’s wiles enthral,
Though Danger spread her ready snare,
Your erring steps to trip,
Remember that dead hero’s prayer,
And “Don’t give up the ship ! “
BABY - JUMPERS.
BY THOMAS W. LANE.
We always loved a baby—not one of your
sour, suspicous, squalling specimens ; but a
bright, rosy, dimpled thing, full of fun and
frolic, running over with glee, and of such a
confiding, unsuspecting disposition, as not to
refuse to “go to” any body. What can be
more refreshing in this busy, tiresome world,
than an occasional romp with a baby? A let
ting down as it were, of the chord of mind,
until it vibrates in unison with a baby’s, and
then holding a confidential chat, in real baby
vernacular. Then, too, to have a couple of
white chubby arms thrown aroud your neck,
and a pair of rosy lips, fresh as rose-buds ere
the dews have left them, presented for a kiss!
The man who can think of it without a soft
ening of heart, and a “watering of the mouth,
is no better than the swine before which the
pearls were cast, and we hope he may never
be blest with a baby—or if he is, let it be a
regular kicking, pugilistic baby—one skilled
in the art of gouging, who takes a delight in
running his thumb into your eye, and is al
ways trying to obtain a lock oi’ your hair by
a more summary process than clipping.
We were once a baby ourselves, and to this I
day we can't see one sitting on the floor, with
a stick of candy in one hand, and a penny
whistle in the other, without a sigh for the
days of babyhood, and the luxuries of bare
feet and soiled aprons. Who can look back
upon those halcyon days without feelings of
pleasurable emotion ? What a glorious world
was that warm dark room that first burst up
on our delighted gaze, and what good angels
were its three inhabitants—our mother, with
her happy smiling face; the brisk little doc
tor that rubbed his hands so merrily together,
and pronounced 11s a fine fellow—and our
grandmother, in a white cap and black apron,
as she looked proudly over her spectacles
upon us. And yet, how strangely did her
benevolent countenance Contrast with her first
manifestation of kindness towards us, that of
sousing us into an ocean of water, and keep
ing us there, per force, until through exhaus
tion we were unable to express our wrongs
in wailing any longer, and our infant legs at
last refusing to kick, remained in a state of
inglorious quiescence.
Then followed the glowing delights of red
worsted stockings and white flannel morning
gowns—the refreshing luxuries of snowy
caps and blue ribbons—of superfine bibs and
tuckers, and jaunty little hats and dainty slip
pers. Thrice happy days!
“ They were bright, they were heavenly, but they're
past.”
We say we always loved a baby, and it is
therefore with unfeigned pleasure that we
hail a recent invention, incalculable in its in
fluences of good upon babies—an invention
which has created a perfect fifrore among ju
veniles, and which still continues to shake all
babydom to its centre. The baby-jumper has
been invented, and the infantile elysium is
now perfect—a paradise, where, thanks to
the elasticity of India rubber, there is no fall.
While Professor Morse was perfecting the
telegraph, and John Smith in hot pursuit of
perpetual motion, a man in New York, oh !
philanthropic man! was endeavoring to ame
liorate the condition of babies. And when
telegraphs shall have passed from the memo
ry of man—like an electric spark upon their
own wires—when the name of Morse shall
be covered with moss , and John Smith shall
have beeome “ a by-word and a name,” the
inventor of the baby-jumper will live in the
grateful recollections of all mankind. Per
secuted fathers, that through the lone hours
of the night dandled a cherub on each knee,
while their better halves slumbered and snor
ed, will bless his memory—worn-out nurses
will chaunt his praises in every lullaby, and
all the million babies, from a million cribs and
cradles in our land, will crow his praises, and
yell in disjointed syllables the glory of his
name.
Newton, from the fall of an apple, discov
ered the laws of gravitation, and we might
here stop with profit to trace the wanderings
of the mind of Mr. G. W. Tuttle in its search
: after the baby-jumper. It is interesting and
instructive to observe the process of reason
ing in a reflecting mind, as step by step it
finds its way out from darkness to light.—
But we are unfortunately compelled to resign
this pleasure. Nothing as yet has been giv
en to the world of the process which devel
oped that greatest of all modern inventions,
the “Patent Elastic Baby-Jumper.” It was
a tangible thing before the world had even an
intimation that its existence was ideal, and
we can therefore do nothing but speculate.
Perhaps Mr. Tuttle thought it “ tew bad 11 to
be getting up in the night, when the mercury
j was below zero, to replace his baby, who,
overleaping the barricades of Mrs. Tuttle on
one side, of Mr Tuttle on the other, and of
propriety on all sides, would lie nowhere but
on the floor. Or it is probable that Mr. Tut
tle's legs rebelled, and refused to trot his ba
by until it was pleased to be quiet. Perhaps
Necessity, the mother of a baby called Inven
tion, was at the head of it. Which one of
these conjectures is nearest the truth, we have
not time now to determine ; it is sufficient for
our present purpose to know that the baby
jumper is invented. Miss Lucy Long need
rock the cradle no longer, and the “ old white
horse,” on which babies were wont to jour
ney to ‘ Banbury Cross,’ is turned out to
graze; he may hide his diminished head—
the baby-jumper has completely supplanted
him, and all sensible babies have given him,
what, kind animal, he never gave them, a
kick.
Time was, when mothers could only tear
and tumble a few boxes of ribbons or flow-
ers —when they were compelled to leave glit
tering show-cases and enticing shelves for
the less pleasing task of quieting their babies.
In days of yore, mothers often retarded from
scenes of pleasure, to find their babies making
martyrs of themselves upon the fire-coals, or
their tender throats lacerated with fish-bones,
or obstructed by indiscriminate mouthfuls.—
Sometimes, too, they were met on the stairs
by their babies, who, forgetting every thing
else in the ardor of maternal affection, has
tened to meet them at the rate of ten stair
steps per second. The matrons of yore could
not pay a visit, or make a call, without taking
their babies with them to disturb a whole
neighborhood with their cries on meetingwith
anew face. But those ‘melancholy days’
are gone, and the most nervous motner may
now leave her baby at home, and gad about
the town, disseminating and collecting tattle,
and annoying the clerks from daylight till
dark.
Dropping in the other day at a friend’s, we
found the mother of the family engaged in put
ting up a baby-jumper for her first-born, a
sprightly boy of some ten months old, who
lay on his back upon the floor, as we enter
ed, surveying the operation in mute astonish
ment. The mother having satisfied herself
by numerous experiments that all was secure,
the baby was taken up, the straight jacket
buttoned around him, and he hung suspended
in mid-air. He looked around, now at his
mother, now at us, as if conscious that his
situation was very undignified for one of his
years, and then resorted to that usual omnip
otent softener of mothers’ hearts—tears. First
there was a gentle twitching of the corners of
the mouth—then a compressed curvature of
the lip, as if he endeavored to repress the in
dignation that swelled in his bosom—the lips
next took a more decided curve, forming a
bright coral arch, the invariable precursor of
tears, and down the bright drops came in a
shower. Now, thought we, for the rescue ;
surely no mother can stand unmoved in such
trying circumstances:—but much to Master
Willie’s and our surprise, she stood off. mo
tionless, a smile upon her face, which was
but half a smile, as if she was determined to
see the finale , yet regretted to gratify her cu
riosity at the expense of his feelings. Mas
ter Wiiiie, finding no aid from the usual and
expected quarter, stopped a moment and turn
ing his large blue eyes reproachfully upon
his mother, broke out afresh, accompanying
the renewal of his screams with a vigorous
and determined kick with both legs. No
sooner did his feet touch the floor than he
sprung up again as if by magic. He stopped
again, and looked down at his little white
feet, as if for an explanation of the wonder,
but finding none there, he repeated the exper
iment with similar success. Satisfied that it
was no illusion, a smile, just visible through
his tears, spread over his face, like summer
sunshine through a shower, and he commen
ced bobbing up and down, like a cork upon a
fishing line, screaming and clapping his hands
all the while, in a pertect ecstacy of delight.
The mother could restrain her feelings no lon
ger. Opening wide her arms, she flew to his
side, and catching up jumper, baby, and all,
she pressed him to her bosom, and said some
thing about “ tweet ittle fellow.” and “ mud
der's darlin peshus during which, feeling
rather awkward, we vamosed through the o
pen door.
Demosthenes, Jr., speaking of small begin
nings and greatendings, said, “Tall oaks from
little acorns grow ;” and to us nothing is
plainer than tnat, in that apparently insigni
ficant article, the baby-jumper, is to be found
the grand accomplisher of that long-wished -
for desideratum, the Millennium. Not hav
ing the book by us, we are not positively cer
tain that it was Solomon who said, “Just as
the twig is bent the tree’s inclined.” We are,
however, inclined to that opinion from our
recollections of his chapter on ‘ twigs,’ “rods.*
&c., frequently quoted to us, and accompa
nied with practical demonstrations during our
younger days. Strip this wise saying of its
metaphorical dress, and we have the great
principle that boys and girls are dependent
upon their training (train up a child in the
way he should go, &c.,) while young for
their characters when they become men and
women, and nothing is then easier than to
prove the correctness of our theory. Bhbies
(ask any father if it isn't true,) as a genera!
rule, possess great acerbity of disposition.
This is the bending which inclines them to be
such crusty crabbed trees when they grow
up. Now, if this evil inclination could he
removed or counteracted —if, in short, some
other direction could be given to the twig,
might not a better tree be looked for ? The
baby-jumper will effect the desired object. It
is as certain a neutralizer of this sourness in
the baby constitution, as alkalies are of acids.
What baby is there, let Ins temper be never
so bad, that is not rendered good-natured and
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