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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 149