INTRODUCTION.

"I had to live, that therefore I might work;
And being but poor, I was constrained, for life,
To work with one hand for the booksellers,
While working with the other for myself
And art.

Having bread,

For just so many days, just breathing room

For body and verse, I stood up straight and worked My veritable work.

I labored on, alone; the wind and dust

And sun of the world beat blistering in my face;

And hope, now for me, now against me, dragged
My spirits onward.

Behold, at last, a book!

If life-blood's necessary,-which it is,

If life-blood's fertilizing,-I wrung mine

On every page of this.

Shall I fail?-Measure not the work

Until the day's out and the labor done;

Then bring your gauges. If the day's work's seant,

Why call it scant; affect no compromise;

And in that we have nobly striven, at least,

Deal with us nobly, women though we be,

And honor us with truth, if not with praise.

Be sure, no earnest work

Of any honest creature, howbeit weak,
Imperfect, ill-adapted, fails so much,
It is not gathered as a grain of sand,
To enlarge the sum of human action, used
For carrying out God's end."

AURORA LEigh.

"In early years, when, though so frank as to the thoughts of the mind, I put no heart confidence in any human being, my refuge was in my journal. I have burned those records of my youth, with its bitter tears, and struggles, and aspirations. Those aspirations were high, and have gained only broader foundations and wider reach. But the leaves had done their work. For years to write there, instead of speaking, had enabled me to soothe myself; and the Spirit was often my friend, when I sought no other. Once, again, I am willing to take up the cross of loneliness. Resolves are idle, but the anguish of my soul has been deep. It will not be easy to profane life, by rhetoric."

MARGARET FULLER.

Leaves from an Invalid's Journal.

NO. 1.

"OH! ask not, hope thou not too much

Of sympathy below;

Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountain flow;
Few-and by still conflicting powers

Forbidden here to meet;

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet."

HEMANS.

Oh!

FRIDAY, July 3d.
New York.
I employed every

WEDNESDAY afternoon, I left for what a dreary day that was to me. moment of my time in arranging all that would add to my children's comfort during my absence. God only knows with what anguish of heart I bid them farewell! I feared I was gazing upon them for the last time. After kissing them fervently, and praying that the all wise Father would keep them in the hollow of his hand, I stepped hastily into the carriage, and was driven far from my home, and all that made earth

beautiful to me. Our ride to Stonington, in the cars, was cheerless; for it was a stormy night, and I could not banish from my mind the thought that our children. would be thrown upon the cold charity of the world, in case of any serious accidents, and I could not think of one relation on either side, who could be burdened with our treasures. The fog was dense, and we were obliged to stop at Stonington till the next morning. We listened to some sweet music-a modest, pretty little German woman played the harp, and her husband accompanied her with his flute, while her sister sang, and played the guitar. I had some conversation with her, and found her heart was far away in her native land, where she had left her only child, and she had not seen it for many a long month. No wonder her face was sad while she was playing the gay tunes that were called for by the heartless crowd around her.

We arrived in New York about four or five o'clock, Thursday afternoon, and just as I was stepping from the boat to the carriage, I heard a cry of anguish ; and then a man crossed my path, holding in his arms a little boy, about the age and size of my little R., and as he stumbled over the stones, a girl of about ten or twelve years of age came running after him with bare feet and swolen eyes, exclaiming all the while,—

"Oh! he will kill him! he will kill him!-he is drunk, he don't know what he is doing. Oh! stop him, stop him."

Then I perceived that the man was hardly able to stand, but was running, as drunken men will sometimes, to keep from falling. Hastily I joined the chase,

and laying my hand upon the shoulder of the girl, said,

"What is it, my poor child?"

She repeated it over again that her father was drunk-that he had taken the child from her, with the determination of killing him. The poor girl sobbed aloud, and I wrung my hands in agony, and begged the men to hasten and save the child. Never shall I forget that moment, as I saw the wretched man standing on the very verge of the wharf, trying to unclasp his little son's hands, that were clinging fast to his neck for safety. It was my own child, for the moment. My husband dropped the trunks and came after me; his own soul was moved with pity, for he comprehended the whole at a glance, but as he saw others engaged in securing the child, he said "you must come, the man is waiting; in this tumult and confusion we shall lose our baggage.' "I cannot go till the child is safe," I replied, and my tears fell fast. Some kind men approached, and very respectfully told me the child was safe. Then I ran forward again, and entreated the girl to be good to the child, and oh! how my heart went forth in prayer for that little suffering girl herself, with no one to counsel, no one to guide, and that little helpless brother to look after. I thought how I had murmured at a short separation, from my healthy, happy children, and felt condemned. I rode through the splendid streets of New York city, and although many things were pointed out to interest me, I could see nothing but that brutal father, that motherly, selfsacrificing sister, and the little chubby limbs of that three years old boy. Sobs would come from my heart, and I could not repress them.