"Yes-no-when father gets better, he can earn something, and then we will pay you."

"Don't talk about paying me," returned Doctor Milnor, a good deal moved. "But if you have no money, now, how are you going to live?"

"We do n't want much, and we 've still got a little flour and meat in the house. Father will be better soon, I hope, and mother and I will take in sewing."

after a time, as her thoughts became more active. These not being pleasant, she took up a book, and sought forgetfulness of herself in its pages. For several hours she read, with only the interruptions occasioned by the utterance of a heavy groan now and then, that struggled up from the breast of the sleeping invalid. At last, even these were intermitted, and her father slept more quietly.

About one o'clock, she laid aside her book. It

"O yes. But we hav'n't been here a great while. And we do n't yet know any body from whom we can obtain it."

Doctor Milnor thought a moment, and then said

"Run home quickly and give your father that medicine. In the morning I will call in again."

Thanking the kind physician with a mute, but expressive look, Anna turned away and left his office.

CHAPTER VII.

"HAVE you got it?" eagerly asked the mother of Anna, as she came in after an absence of over half an hour.

chair, she took the lamp, and going to the bed upon which her father slept, held it so that the light would fall clearly on his face. Its expression caused her to start, and sent the blood flowing back upon her heart.

He was

But, she recovered herself in a moment. breathing easily-nay, as gently as a sleeping infant. Turning from the bed side, she replaced the lamp, shading it so that its light would not fall upon the sick man's face, and then retired to a chair in the shadow of the room. The storm had increased instead of abating with the progress of the night. It rushed and roared along the streets, and drove against the frail tenement which they occupied, with a force that made it shake to the foundation. None will wonder that the young watcher, now that her mind had ceased to be occupied as it had been during the former part of the night, should feel a dark, superstitious, and undefinable fear stealing over it.

Mrs. Gray waited to hear no more, but took the medicine quickly from her daughter's hand, and hurried with it up to the chamber of her sick husband. As she did so, Anna heard her father's deep sounding, concussive cough, that to her ear was more than ever distressing.

After one of the powders had been given the sick man seemed to feel some relief. Before half an hour had passed he was sleeping quietly.

"Now Anna, do you go to bed, dear," said Mrs. Gray, "I will set up with your father to-night."

"No, mother: you were up the whole of last night, and hav'n't lain down once to-day. You must go to bed and let me sit up. I can do it very well. The doctor said that he would sleep well after the medicine. Oh; I hope he will be a great deal better in the morning. I am sure he will, for the medicine acted so quickly.'

Her mother was by no means so sanguine; for she understood that it was nothing more than an anodyne that her husband had taken. But she did not wish to destroy the lively hope that had sprung up in her daughter's mind, and therefore said nothing to the contrary.

moan of the wind, every strange sound by night made audible, fell with a chilling sensation upon her heart. At last she arose, and went to the bed upon which her mother lay sleeping soundly, and crouched down close beside her. Here she reclined for nearly an hour, until sleep began to steal over her senses.

A moaning sound startled her just as she had become unconscious of external things. Rising to her feet, she stood bewildered for a moment. The sound came to her ear again. It was from her father. Stepping quickly to the bed upon which he lay, she bent over him anxiously. He still slept; and still breathed easily-but every few minutes moaned as if in pain.

Sighing heavily, she turned away, and again shrunk near to her mother. But she felt no more inclination to sleep. Superstitious thoughts were again thrown into her mind. She felt as if some fearful vision would every moment rise up, and drive her mad. Images of more real things, after awhile, impressed her imagination. These were taking new forms every moment, when a deeper groan from her father again startled her. In a little while a strange distinct rattle thrilled her ear, causing her to spring to his bed side with a quivering heart.

Her father lay motionless. She bent her ear down, but felt no breath upon her cheek. Turning to the light, she removed the object that shaded it from the bed, and then glided back. One look sufficed. Death's angel had set his seal upon the sick

and the poor girl fell senseless upon the couch that supported her father's corpse.

(To be continued.)

UR COUNTRY IS TEEMING

WITH YOUNG GENIUS."

This sentence, with what fol

others claiming our attention on the score of being the veritable young geniuses to which we have alluded. With one or two exceptions, we have not found in the productions of the latter class any evidence of real merit. Some of them write smoothly, and can rhyme words with a good deal of facility, but scarcely a single one has given evidence of possessing the power to go up into the higher regions of his own mind, and bring down thence new, and true, and beautiful ideas. Things stored in the external memory are merely re-arranged, and presented in forms slightly modified, or clothed in some new and badly fitting garments.

But, in the productions of the other class, there is a heart-warmth that communicates itself at once, and a freshness of thought and an original force of language, rough though it may sometimes be, that charms and elevates, and causes the reader to forget himself, the writer, and all but the images that have been called up in his own mind. As face answereth to face in water, so with these, heart answereth to heart. We welcome all such with a hearty good

will.

We offer them the right hand of fellowship; we open our pages to them, and say, "Let your light shine," for it will be as a lamp to the feet of

thousands.

And this brings us to what we wish particularly to say. It is this :-True genius, or to speak more correctly, one who possesses true genius; that is, has the ability to see in his own mind new and abstract truths, and the power to bring them forth to view, is always modest. He is the last one to discover that he is a remarkable man. Those who think themselves geniuses, see only reflected images resting on the mirror of self-esteem. But the man of true genius has no such mirror obstructing his way into the higher regions of his thoughts, where the world of mind (or the spiritual world, in which alone all ideas exist) is resting, and pressing for admittance

Here we see the cause why vain men are never original thinkers,-but only the reproducers, in modified forms, of other men's ideas;-and why even original thinkers lose their power when they begin to imagine that they are in reality the wonderful geniuses that the world declares them to be.

"But why should this take from them their power? Is not their mental organization still the

same?-their intellectual difference from other men a radical one?" some may ask. We can give but one reason in reply, and we believe it to be the true reason. Let all who feel like rejecting it, think well before they do so. We answer the question thus:

Man is a creature and, as such, cannot have life in himself, but is only a spiritually organized being, with a form receptive of life. The appearance to himself is, that he has life in himself; but, that this is only an appearance, any reflecting mind can easily see. If, then, he have not life in himself, he cannot originate ideas, for, how can a being who receives his very life from a higher Being, originate any thing. He can remodel what is given to him, and reproduce it in various seemingly new forms, but he must, first, have the material with which to work. The truth, then is, that men of original minds, so called, do not as before intimated, really originate ideas, but only have the faculty above other men, given for specific uses in the world, of perceiving them in the more interior regions of their minds, where the spiritual world, in which are all ideas. acts upon the sensorium. Now, to be able to go up into this high or interior region, man's mind should be in just order. He should not think of himself as any thing more than a recipient of life, for that turns his eyes downward, and thus inverts his mind; because in so doing he really believes that he has life in himself, and that ideas are innate. With such a false notion ruling in his mind, how can he approach the source of truth? While puffed up with pride and self consequence, in the vain imagination that what has been given to him has been created by him, how can he again come near, in thought, that Being

in whom alone are all truths, and who can only communicate new truths to such as are willing to receive them?-But he is not willing to receive them, because he believes that he has the power to create them.

All this may not be clear to some minds. We are conscious of not having made it as clear in expression as it is in our own thoughts. Still, our view may be vaguely seen, and if calmly reflected upon, will be seen more and more clearly, and its great importance as a practical doctrine felt.

Taking this standard, it is not hard to determine where true genius lies. Observation, as well as theory, proves, that we rarely if ever find it in those who think they possess it, while in the shrinking and over modest we often discover the rarest mental excellences and the highest endowments.

THE AMERICAN WOMAN.-In our January number we mentioned in terms of commendation a new weekly paper that had been started in our city (it has now reached its twenty-fourth number), called "The American Woman," published by Mrs. Probasco, 119 North Fourth St. and edited by ladies; and at the same time spoke of what seemed to us a severity in the tone of some of its articles that alluded more particularly to the existing state of things in the literary world,—that is, the American literary world. We did not object to the truth of the allegations made we fear they are, in the main, too true-but only to the fact of their being made by our fair friends, from whom we never like to hear the harsh tones of censure. Perhaps we were a little hypercritical in this; but no matter, we are glad that our remarks have been taken in a good spirit; and in order that full justice may be done all around, we copy the following reply of the American Woman.

AMERICAN WOMAN-ARTHUR'S MAGAZINE.-The January number of Arthur's Magazine did not reach us until within a few days, indeed, not until after we had received that of February. It is a good number, contains two beautiful engravings and much interesting matter, set in a most beautiful typography. Amongst a variety, we find a notice of ourselves, which we do not hesitate to transfer to our columns, notwithstanding the strictures upon some of our editorials, for which Mr. Arthur bespeaks from us a pardon. It must appear evident to all, that our editorials are from different pens, and display different tones of feeling and various ability for composition. But the writer of this is not aware of any one editorial, that is liable to the objection which Mr. Arthur gently insinuates against us. We commend his independence, and think the better of him for the freedom with which he has remarked upon our paper. At the same time, we would have preferred that he had designated those articles to the spirit of which, he so delicately takes exception. Our editorials, most of them, are the productions of the moment, as the editresses have engagements of such a character as to preclude them from that devotion to the paper which ought to be given to it. We have, therefore, generally written in great haste, and in carnest;—and having been taught, in our youth, that perspicuity was the first great requisite of good writing, we have endeavored to make ourselves understood. When we had any thing to say, we spoke right out. Testing our literature by what we deemed sound canons of criticism, we found it a baby literature and we thus denominated it. Our men we found writing like little misses, and we told

them so. Their writings were chaffy, of the passions, which destroy and enfeeble, and not of the understanding which illumines, preserves, and ennobles, and we expressed our opinion to that effect. The age appeared to us to be a selfish, sensual age, and whilst we announced our convictions of that fact, we have steadily and constantly referred to and enforced the mighty fundamental principles, which in the end, will revolutionize and chasten it. In a word, whether we have spoken of literature, politics, religion, or of the social or civil state, we have endeavored always to speak forth the "words of truth and soberness," and to embody, in our brief editorials, a saving, conservative and ennobling principle. If Mr. Arthur, or any one else, will point out to us in our editorials a false fact or a principle philosophically, morally or religiously unsound, we will deem it our highest duty,

at once, to renounce it. Nor have we been inattentive to the tone or spirit of our articles. Aware that it is this which influences, we have ever endeavored to pervade our sheet with the spirit which lifts up. But, it may be, that our feelings have been so revolted by the weak effeminacy around us, that we have been driven unconsciously into the opposite extreme.

The real truth, we think, is expressed in the closing sentence. And that covers all the objections we intended to make. Our readers will see from the above, that the "American Woman" has about it a spice of independence, with tact, taste, and ability. And who can object to these? For one, we should like to see the talent now at work on that unpretending little sheet, have a wider scope. We should like to see the "American Woman" with broader wings, floating over the length and breadth of our land. American women every where should take it and read it. The price per year is only one dollar.

HOME POEMS, BY AUGUSTINE J. H. DUGANNE.— A very modest little book, with this modest title has been laid on our table. In introducing himself to the public, the author says :-" In ushering into the world this little book, I ask for it no favor which it may not deserve. It is not the offspring of an imagination nursed amid the wild and the wonderful of nature, nor of a mind moulded in the haunts of classic life.

It has sprung up amid the noise of the great city, the toils of the life-task; and if it should possess any merit, it is that of the wild plant that shoots up from the city's roofs, unnurtured save by the showers of heaven. Thus I send it forth. It remains for others to cultivate and encourage the simple plant. If they do so, it may yet give forth a sweeter fragrance than the hot-bed flowers that bask in fortune's sunshine. If they do not, let it fructify alone!"

The book is made up of two well written poems, one called Massachusetts," delivered before the Mechanic Apprentices' Library Association, July 4, 1842, and the other, "The Nations," delivered before the Mechanic Apprentices' Library Association, at Bromfield Church, July 4, 1813-besides a number of shorter pieces. The two larger poems contain many striking and beautiful passages. We make a single extract from "Massachusetts," descriptive of a scene that all will recognise :

"On the foamy wave,― Now sinking in the gulf that seems her grave, Now rising on the billows chill and dark,—