ARTICLE ON MRS. SIGOURNEY.-Not having watched the progress of filling up this number as carefully as we might have done, we found, when it was too late to remedy the thing, that we had not reserved all the space we desired for our review of Mrs. Sigourney's writings. We are, therefore, tempted to throw in one or two items here touching upon other traits than those considered in our article. Critics agree in opinion that of all her longer poems "Pocahontas" is the best sustained.

"Oriska" is a fine specimen of descriptive and narrative poetry. The closing scene, where the wretched Indian woman, with her little son, steers her canoe over the Falls of Niagara, is described with singular graphic power:

"And as the rapids raised their whitening heads,
Casting her light oar to the infuriate tide,

She raised him in her arms, and clasp'd him close.
Then as the boat with arrowy swiftness drove
Down toward the unfathom'd gulf, while chilling spray
Rose up in blinding showers, he hid his head
Deep in the bosom that had nurtured him,
With a low, stifled sǝb.

And thus they took

Their awful pathway to eternity.

One ripple on the mighty river's brink,
Just where it, shuddering, makes its own dread plunge,
And at the foot of that most dire abyss

One gleam of flitting robe, and raven tress,

And feathery coronet-and all was o'er,
Save the deep thunder of the eternal surge
Sounding their epitaph."

Our article, in its fragmentary state, may also create the impression that genial wit and humor never sparkle in her writings. To correct such an impression, we will append "An Old Story," done up into verse. It is alike amusing and instructive. Some of our readers may have seen it before, but they will bid it welcome again:

"Says Tom to Jem, as forth they went

To walk one evening fine,

'I wish the sky a great green field,
And all that pasture mine.' f

'And I,' says Jem, 'wish yonder stars,

That there so idly shine,

Were every one a good fat ox,

And all those oxen mine!'

'Where would your herd of cattle graze?'

'Why, in your pasture fair.'

'They should not, that's a fact,' said Tom; "They shall not, I declare!'

With that they frowned, and struck, and fought, And fiercely stood at bay,

And for a foolish fancy cast

Their old regard away.

And many a war, on broader scale,

Hath stained the earth with gore,

For castles in the air, that fell

Before the strife was o'er."

Mrs. Sigourney has recently been called to experience anew the sorrows of bereavement, in the sudden death of her husband. We believe that a daughter is now all of her family that remains to her on earth. She has our sympathy in her sorrows; but she has a higher solace than human sympathy. Her muse may be chas

tened by these sorrows, but not silenced. Rather may it be tuned to higher and holier melodies!

OUR ENGRAVINGS.-The Western Clearing-In the very places where many of our readers now live were once witnessed scenes like that exhibited in this plate. The wild scene in the wilderness, the rude log-cabin home, the fire kindled beneath the branches of the forest trees, are not mere fancy dreams, but real memories. The hunter in the picture has been successful in the chase, and his faithful dog shares in his pride of success. His "helpmeet" has kindled the fire and hung on the pot. We have no doubt the family will enjoy a royal feast; not all the luxuries that could be crowded upon the tables of wealth could make them more happy. We catch a glimpse of the children of this pioneer couple. The oldest son, a sturdy lad, is bringing a huge fagot for the fire; the second-we have our suspicions about him-seems to be holding up that old tree, or it may be that he is cutting it down, or, what is equally possible, frightening away some "varmint" of the Indian or wild-cat race; the third-a brave "eight year old"-is not afraid of the dead stag-not he! but the loveliest of all-the pet of all-dares not come quite so near. We hope our gentle readers, accustomed to the comforts and conveniencesnay, the superfluities-of old and established homes, will not look upon this as a scene of sorrow, privation, and suffering, rendered tolerable only by a faint glimpse of hope dimly seen. There is often more real happiness in a backwoods hovel than in a city palace.

Early Piety, we think, can not but commend itself to the hearts of our pious readers. The custom of reading the Bible daily upon the knees-secluded from the world and alone with God-is beautiful beyond expression. It can not fail to leave impressions divine and lasting on the soul of childhood and youth. The picture reminds us of the following beautiful stanza from a poem found in the Englishwoman's Magazine:

"And low within a quiet room
There knelt a fair
child;
young
The bright tears glisten'd in her eye,
But while she pray'd, she smil'd.
For beautiful and holy thoughts,
Gleams from the light above,
Had tuned her infant lips to praise,
And fill'd her heart with love."

We can scarcely wonder that her eye as well as her heart should be drawn heavenward.

ARTICLES DECLINED. The author of "Liberty's Lament" says, in a note to the editor, "I suspect you will think there is more truth than poetry in these lines." The result justifies the suspicion of the author; for though the lines contain much truth-and expressed, too, with considerable force-they lack the smoothness of poetry.

A poem on "Spring," commencing,

"Sweet Spring has returned with her soft balmy air,
And banished bleak winter away,"

has been read several times; but we could never quite make up our mind to insert it. In several instances there is rather too much constraint or effort in order to get the right measure and rhyme.

The editor can not agree with the author of "The Weeping Parent's Life Dream" in his opinion that it is "worthy" of a place in the Repository.

"The Dying Blind Man to his Wife" has been "viewed and reviewed," and once or twice been almost on the point of receiving an insertion. Now we lay it aside; but not till we have culled the four following stanzas, which contain a beautiful conception:

"I oft have wished these darkened eyes
Might here behold thy face,

That when I meet thee in the skies

I could the semblance trace.
For, O, methinks that even there
I shall thy presence miss;
And only wish with thee to share
That world of untold bliss.
But, Mary, surely thou wilt know

Thy William's face in heaven?
Thou who didst love him here below,
Till earth's frail ties were riven?
And, Mary, surely thine will seek

My spirit in that sphere:

O rapturous thought! we there shall meet,
Nor death nor parting fear."

We would encourage the author of "The Spirit of the Passing Year" to use her pen; but the present production has hardly enough merit to warrant its insertion.

SOMETHING FOR THE CHILDREN.-Living when Every Body is Dead.-A little girl was discovered lying on the bed in her own room, passionately weeping. To the inquiry what caused her grief, she answered:

"O dear! I am so afraid I shall live till every body is dead that I love, and not a creature will be left to cry at my funeral."

Good Lamps that have Gone to Heaven.-Two little children were admiring the stars, as they came forth on the summer sky.

"What do you suppose they are?" said one.

"I think," said the other, "they are nice lamps, that have been good and gone to heaven."

You Great Ugly Rooster.-A little girl, who had great kindness of heart for all the animal creation, saw a hen preparing to gather her chickens under her sheltering wings, and shouted earnestly:

"O don't sit down on those beautiful little birds, you great, ugly, old rooster."

Saying Good-Night to God.-The hour had come for retiring, and a sweet little girl was bidding good night to the family, while her kind nurse stood waiting for her at the parlor-door. She climbed her father's knee to tell him how much she loved him, and gave many kisses to the baby. Her mother, as she embraced her, whispered: "You will not forget your prayers."

“O no, mamma dear, I love to say good-night to God,

too."

Excerpta from CorreSPONDENCE. The commendatory notes of kind friends, if they do not appear here, are duly appreciated. The following speaks of our artist, and will speak to the hearts of many of our readers: "I doubt not your numerous letters try your patience; but permit me to write a few lines to you from my wild retreat in the Egypt of Illinois.' Three days since I received the December number of the Ladies' Repository, and I wish to thank you again and again for that beautiful engraving-The Mother's Dream.' O, how my heart was wrung with sorrow, when I first opened the Repository, and saw that exquisite creation of artistic genius! and at the same moment I could but thank the

kind Disposer of all events for a reassurance that I have an angel in heaven. Others may appreciate the beauty of the engraving, but none but a bereaved mother can feel it. Two short months have not passed since I was the happy mother of a darling babe; but death came, and snatched from my bosom my pride, my pet, my Willie. He was seven months old. I fancy I see him now as he lay, an angel of sweetness, in his little coffin. Black hair waved over the most beautiful of foreheads, and his eyes, once so black and brilliant, were closed as in a quiet slumber. I dressed him in a slip he had been accustomed to wear, and placed some natural flowers around his little dimpled hands. Thus his body rests beneath the sod, while the cold December blast chants his requiem. Pardon me, a stranger, for thus addressing you, but I felt as though it would do me good. I have not forgotten your buried ones, and I know you can sympathize."

To the above, out of all our collection, we have room to add only the following lines from Mrs. R. S. Nichols, received too late for insertion in the body of the work, and too good to be delayed:

SONNET.

The ice-mailed winter beards the tender Spring,
And nips her children with untimely frost;
Discrowned and shoreless, doth the warrior-king
Return to battle for his empire lost!
He blurs the edges of her robes of green,

And with his frozen armies, snow and hail,
Encamps upon the hills and gorge between,
And bids the north wind ride the whistling gale!
The waves dash howling on the flinty coast,

Or climb with giant strides the level sands;
While o'er the billows, like a tortured ghost,

The noble ship drifts wildly, ere it strands.
The Earth is dumb, and Spring imploring waits
The Sun's advancement through the vernal gates!

A NOTE TO THE PATRONS AND FRIENDS OF THE REPOSITORY.-Our plea in the February number for twenty thousand subscribers reminds us of an incident that came under our observation some years since. A Sunday school enterprise was on hand, and a considerable amount of money was to be raised. The boys and girls were all at work. We met one of the keenest of our little allies one day, just after he had made his application to one of our liberal members The little fellow seemed so chagrined and downcast, that for the moment we supposed he had, for some cause, been repulsed. "What's the matter?" we inquired, calling him by name. Absorbed in his own thoughts and hardly half conscious of our presence, he exclaimed, in a tone of self-vexation, "My! he one dollar so easy, I wish I had asked him for two!" We must confess to something of the same feeling, when we found our list running up to twenty-two thousand before our plea for twenty thousand had time to get out. We felt rather vexed that we had not said twenty-five thou sand. It will hardly be generous for us now to ask for more; but our friends will all understand that they are not bound to stop sending in subscriptions.

gave

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We have received many letters, both from the east and west, complaining of the late reception of the January number. This delay is easily explained. 1. Many of the subscriptions came in late. 2. The agents had not anticipated so large an increase of subscribers in these hard times, and it was necessary to print several thousand more to meet the increased demand. This required time. We trust, now that we are fairly afloat, there will be no further cause for complaint.