Hence it was that I felt I could not abandon the dispatches intrusted to me, whatever else I might do.

I suppose I had lain thus for half an hour, when I was suddenly roused from my reverie by an exclamation of surprise, and a man's voice, demanding who I was, and what had brought me there. I started to my feet, and before me sat, on a stout Spanish pony, a muleteer. I soon made him understand my position, when, in an incredibly short time, he secured my mule, shifted my saddle on to his own pony, being, as he politely said, the more pleasant animal of the two for me to ride, and mounting the mule himself-which, by the way, appeared perfectly to comprehend the difference between his present and his late rider, he led the way through the mazy intricacies of the wood, and brought me out on the Panama road, at the distance of about three leagues from the city.

The honest muleteer explained to me, as we rode along, that the situation in which he had found me was one of great peril; for, independently of there being no habitation but his own, which was several miles distant, near to the wood, he said I might have remained in the forest forever, and no one would ever have thought of seeking for me there; and indeed this was confirmed, for, as we approached the city, we met several persons on horseback who had been sent out in search of me; but they declared that they would not have ventured to enter the wood, for fear of the hanging snakes with which it was said to be infested. My deliverer, it appeared, was a breeder of mules;

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one of which animals having strayed the night before, he thought it was just possible it might have entered the wood, and in seeking for his lost mule he fortunately discovered me.

There is nothing particularly imposing or striking in the appearance of Panama, as approached by the Cruces road. The country is flat and uncultivated, and the city resembles most other cities built by the Spaniards in those countries-large, heavy-looking houses, built of stone, without any attempt at architectural ornament; but there is an esplanade, upon which the beautiful brunettes promenade, the head uncovered, and the jetty hair, floating in rich, unconfined luxuriance, save where the wearer prefers the braid; and then it hangs in three or more pendants, which often nearly brush the tiny feet, clothed in their satin shoes.

The city of Panama is a comparative wreck of what it must once have been; but the magnificent bay is alone worth travelling across the isthmus to see. The sea almost always maintains its name of Pacific,' and looks like a gigantic parterre; whilst the numerous islands with which the bay is studded resemble so many flower-beds-ever blooming, ever lovely. I will not take the reader with me to visit some of these gems of the ocean, nor will I detain him to inspect with me the process of making the curious gold chains, for which Panama is celebrated, and many other curious things I saw; but merely add, that, after ten days' residence, I left the city at the peep of day, and on the following afternoon was on board my ship, having bathed in the two seas within forty-eight hours.

FAME is one of the universal aspirations of youth; literary or professional fame, of educated youth; and this is truly a higher fame than that whose trumpet is all of silver and her crown of gold. When the ardent youth hears the plaudit-notes of Fame sounding the praises of some favorite, and filling the ears of listening multitudes with his name, the inner depths of his spirit are stirred; he pants after the same notoriety, and courts the smiles of the goddess,

in hopes that she may crown him with a like glory and point him out to an admiring world.

In some, the aspiration reaches no higher than to occupy the same niche in her temple with Sam Patch. Others seek to become famous by perpetrating deeds which should mantle their cheeks with shame, and will doubtless secure them the seat of honor beside their father, the Devil, who, for his rebellion, lost heaven and became the master spirit of hell.

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Others, again, hear Fame's artillery thundering in the skies, and the shout of exultation going up from the people, as they read on her floating banners, "Victory, Conquest, Military Renown," and their fancy leads them to some battle-field of bloody strife, on which they win the glory of a scar, and return to exhibit it to a gazing populace.

And yet another class with interest deep watch the march of Fame, as, in purer robes, and with softer, lute-like music, she conducts one of her literary favorites to a white throne in her temple, and records his name where the wise and good of every age shall read and admire. "Ah me!" sighs the student, "shall I ever attain that pinnacle and have my name recorded on the memory of the living of successive generations ?"

"Fame is a sweet self-homage, an offering grateful to the idol, A spiritual nectar for the spiritual thirst, a mental food for minds."

There is a blameless love of fame, founded ⚫ on a consciousness of worth and a regard for

justice, differing in toto from that feverish longing for notoriety which oft accompanies idleness and vanity. Genuine fame is of slow growth, and ere it shoot up into the skies like a tall, green palm tree, must be dug about with toil, and, may be, matured with tears.

Be, then, studious, thoughtful, upright, conscientious, well-deserving of your race, and your fame will grow with your growth. When real merit walks in the sunlight, fame is its shadow. Envy, indeed, will be very likely to parade in the rear, with sneering aspect, criticising both the substance and the shadow; but close your ears against her malignity, nor turn about to mark her mockery. The discerning will make a just comparison, and render to both their desert.

"Be without place or power," says Heinselmann, "though others beg their way up; endure the anguish of unfulfilled hopes, though others realize theirs by flattery; forego the warm pressure of the hand for which others cringe and crawl."

OH, chide me not for weeping!

She's still the same to me,

Though she has long been sleeping
Beneath the willow tree.
That name so lightly spoken,

Falls sadly on my ear

Deem not that Death hath broken
A spell so strong, so dear.

Can the cold grave e'er smother
The heart's first, warmest flame?

That heart enshrine another,

And still love on the same? Say not, she early perished,

As flowers in autumn die; Say not the form I cherished Dwells where her ashes lie.

No! oft when tears are flowing,

As tears are flowing now, And Life's chill winds are blowing Fiercely upon my brow,

That loved one, who before me
Flew to her native sky,
Is bending fondly o'er me,

As in bright years gone by.

How thin the curtain hiding

The spirit world from me! How oft, like shadows gliding, That cherished form I see! My God! I thank thee ever,

That friends so fond and true Not e'en the grave can sever,

Or shroud from human view.

Now comes she near and nearer;
Welcome, my spirit bride!
Methinks she should be dearer
Than erst before she died.
What though she has been sleeping
Long 'neath the willow tree,
Yet chide me not for weeping-
She's still the same to me.

OUR FUTURE PLANS.-The Parlor Magazine has passed into the hands of a new proprietor, who is making great exertions to render the next volume, soon to commence, richer, more elegant, and more valuable than any of its former issues. He is confident that as far as the judicious expenditure of money and a good share of industry can go to produce a magazine of the highest character, his patrons can have no reasonable ground of complaint. The engravings will be more elegant and the literary department more varied and excellent. The publisher confidently appeals to those who have been the friends of this magazine from the outset, and who have sustained it for the kindly influence it is adapted to exert in the domestic circle, to aid the work still by their pecuniary patronage and by their literary contributions. In our next number we shall be able, perhaps, to state more in detail the character of the improvements we design to make in the next volume. In the mean time, we hope to hear from our friends some favorable reports as to what they are disposed to do themselves.

MEMORY.-What a blessed thing is memory! When the mind retires within itself for a while, what a multitude of pleasing associations connected with the past come crowding into it. There are those in the world-we have met many such in our day-who regard the past as of no moment whatever. They look upon it-or rather they would look upon it, if they did not rather choose to bring it in oblivion-much as they would regard the money they had once possessed, and which has long ago been spent. With them the present is all of reality they find in life. Now, we do not happen to belong to that class of persons at all. We there find a reality in the past. We are no dreamer, no enthusiast, no poet, technically; but we should greatly regret the loss of the power which every one possesses, however some may undervalue it, to be an actor, perhaps for the thousandth time, in the scenes through which we passed long ago. We love to visit again those green spots over which passed the feet of childhood-to visit them not only, but to live among them. Yet are there a great many strange phases in this matter of memory. There are some things quite unaccountable by our philosophy. We cannot comprehend, for instance, how it comes to pass, when

the spirit goes back to the past, and becomes an actor again in the scenes of the past, there often seems to be a much greater proportion of the painful than of the pleasurable in the retrospect; and yet we cling to those scenes with the utmost tenacity, cherish them fondly, and even derive a great measure of enjoyment from them. Why is this? Look at the old man, in the engraving with which this number of our magazine is introduced. He is living his life over again. There can be no doubt of that. His childhood, his early youth, his first love, his young bride, the death of his first-born, the last sad hours of the life of his best beloved, the fading away one by one of the flowers on which his heart doted-all, all come before his mind. They are as fresh, many of them, as if they had no former existence. Tears flow down those wrinkled, furrowed cheeks, as he passes in review, successively, the prominent incidents in his long life. Yet does he love these excursions of the mind. He would not willingly lose the pleasure he derives from them. The past is to him, in the aggregate, whatever it may be in detail, fairer, lovelier than the present. To our own mind, the faculty of communion with the past, is one of the choicest mental gifts of a beneficent Providence. A blessed thing indeed is memory.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.-We receive, first and last, a great many contributions, mostly in the form of poetry, that have not the slightest merit as literary productions; but which we are requested to publish, nevertheless, to gratify a few partial friends, or on the ground that the writer is a patron, or perhaps because the circumstances which gave rise to the effusion are themselves interesting. Now, we dislike to refuse admission into our Magazine to anybody who asks for such admission; but justice to ourselves, no less than to ninety-nine hundredths of our subscribers, compels us to say that neither of these considerations can weigh a feather with us in deciding upon the fate of an article. We must decide, from the merits of the article, whether it is accepted or rejected; and if that article wears the garb of poetry, it must be judged of by its excellence as poetry, in the main. Others have different standards of judgment in such casesthis is ours. "I have not the vanity," says a correspondent, in prefacing some lines which she

sends for publication, "to suppose myself a poet, or that the effusion I send you has any particular merit, aside from the circumstances connected with it." Indeed! then these lines are precisely such as we do not want to publish, and precisely such as the most of our readers would blame us for publishing, should they appear.

We are delighted with the articles from our new correspondent, "M. J." If we thought our readers would consider such an announcement necessary, we should be tempted to say that we consider her morceau in this number of the magazine a gem of beauty and excellence. Although the writer has given the initials only of her name in connection with the manuscript placed in our hands, we hope she will consider it no breach of editorial courtesy if we gratify a curiosity for which any one may be pardoned, and tell our patrons that the lady who employs this soubriquet is Miss MARGARET JUNKIN, formerly of Easton, Pennsylvania, and now a resident of Lexington,

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Virginia. We made her acquaintance during a visit to the former place last summer, at which time, through the politeness of some of our friends, we first saw a few of her fugitives, and were struck with their simple and classic beauty. We wondered how it came to pass that one who could write such strains as those, had been so' seldom heard; for we are greatly mistaken, and are, moreover, a very indifferent judge of poetical excellence, if some of her effusions are not among the choicest specimens of lyrical composition which grace the magazine literature of the day. We ask her pardon, however, for this effervescent enthusiasm. The only apology we have to offer for it-rather a poor one, we grant-is of the same class and order with that trumped up by Goldsmith for the severity which characterized the description of the schoolmaster in the "Deserted Village"

"The love he bore to learning was in fault."

Modern Accomplishments, or March of Intellect By Miss CATHARINE SINCLAIR, author of "Modern Society," "Charles Seymour," &c. New York: Robert Carter & Brothers.

Everything we have seen from the pen of this author has pleased us, and this not less than the rest. It is in the form of a tale, one of the best forms, we can hardly help saying, in this connection, when it is judiciously managed, in which to convey moral truths. The book will be welcome in the family where works of fiction, of an exceptionable character, are scrupulously discarded; and it can scarcely fail to be a source of great benefit, for the excellent thoughts it so happily evolves.

The Night of Toil. By the Author of the "Peep of Day." pp. 236, 18mo. Price 25 cts. This "night of toil" was that of near twenty years, through which the first missionaries to the South Sea Islands passed, before the bright day of the triumphs of the Gospel there, in connection with the labors of Williams and other martyrs and defenders of the truth. The narrative has the beautiful simplicity which characterizes this favorite author, vividly portraying the varied and even tragic scenes of the history in their order, and thus fastening them upon the

minds of the young. The heart of the writer is so large and full of love to Christ and the heathen, that the reader catches her spirit, rejoices in the conquests of grace over idolatry and sin, and pants to hasten forward the day when every fetter shall be broken, and all shall come to the knowledge of Christ.

The Boy's Spring, Summer and Autumn Books; Descriptive of the Season, Scenery, Rural Life and Country Amusements. By THOMAS MILLER. New York: Harper & Brothers.

One of the best series of racy, entertaining and instructive books for the juvenile members of the family that we have seen for a long time. There are three volumes in the series, which are bound separately or together.

Evenings at Home; or the Juvenile Budget

Opened. By Dr. AIKIN and Mrs. BARBAULD. From the fifteenth London edition. Illustrated with beautiful engravings.

Here is another excellent volume by the same publishers. No pains have been spared to render the drapery in which the work appears worthy of its internal attractions. It is a book which will make the juvenile reader leave his play, and his supper too, if he is not very hungry.