stand undecided. You had counted on making three visits-you have little philosophy in your composition, but great force of will. Notwithstanding that you are almost crying from vexation, you turn with an air of determination toward Mrs. 's, instead of home. There, your agitation is in no wise soothed, for almost the first thing she remarks, is, "How badly you are looking! - are you sure you are quite well?-if you are not troubled with extreme nervousness and sleeplessness??" and insists on putting into your reticule a recipe for a very calming tea, and a parcel of dried rose-leaves and violets. As before leaving home you remarked, with a slight blush of satisfaction, whilst tying on your bonnet, that you were looking fresher than ordinary, you gaze at her in perfect bewilderment; then, as all the incidents of the past hour rush to mind, they begin to wear a ridiculous aspect, and, in spite of your indignation at so much undesired and needless sympathy, you burst out laughing.

This gayety, mal-à-propos, makes matters worse. You receive another glance of intense commiseration, and a sigh so profound that you shudder in spite of yourself. It is clear you don't stay "to tea." As you turn homeward, your step is unequal, your gait irregular-now slow, now rapid; sometimes you stop altogether, as you ask yourself, in trouble and amaze, "But. what in the world can all this mean?"

You reach home in a horrible humor, go straight to your room and look at yourself in the glass. Decidedly you are pale and looking ill. So, the consequence of this agreeable promenade is that you have an intense longing to look at the stars again that night; a most unusual occurrence that, of being sentimental two succeeding nights. But as in these narrow streets the sky is visible only immediately overhead, and it is impossible to look long without breaking your neck, moments of repose are necessary. There is certainly but "one step from the sublime to the ridiculous." During one of these resting-spells your attention is vividly attracted to the houses opposite by a most singular appearance. At several of the windows the curtains are pulled lightly aside by an invisible hand, and in the aperture appears a human head, ornamented with the coiffure which ladies, in small towns, usually wear after ten o'clock at night. At first sight you are stupefied; then you recoil-the mystery of the afternoon is revealed. Your first impulse is to dash yourself headlong from the window; but as there are very few persons gifted with firmness of head and will to execute this extravagant desire, it is soon superseded by that of throwing a book at the window opposite. A third reflection, however, shows the inexpediency of this proceeding also. Even should you succeed in breaking the window, (and, by good luck, the head thereat visible,) there are plenty others besides - and - to-morrow will certainly come. This thought makes you shudder! It is worse than being dashed to pieces on the pavements. Oh, misery! At last your only resort is to close your window; and as you are not a philosopher, you shut it with a little noise. Then your rage, (as is the case with many another in this world,) not having

N

the opportunity of venting itself on the true malefactors, breaks forth on the first object (often the most innocent and best loved) that finds itself in your path. To-night it is possibly "Childe Harold," which happens to be on the window-border, and which you send whirling to the other end of the Or you go and waken your maid, who, ignorant of the miseries and delights of the "poetical temperament," is sleeping tranquilly, to ask her for something you could very well find yourself, or to repeat some trivial order for to-morrow.

room.

Whenever I happen to find myself in similar circumstances, I am really most unhappy. And now, in choosing my own room, I sacrifice every other comfort to that of having no window with a vis-à-vis.

WAS

MRS. REBECCA JACOBUS

AS born at Cambridge, S. C., February 22, 1832. She is younger sister of Louise Manhiem. During her infancy, her parents removed to Augusta, Ga., where they remained until she reached her eleventh year, when her father, dissatisfied with his vocation, and craving that sphere of life which his poetic imagination pictured in the wilds of Florida, emigrated to that lovely land. The versatile beauty, sombre gloom, and grandeur of its scenery, awoke the talent of his second daughter, and threw into her after-life an impassioned love of solitude and nature.

Mrs. Jacobus was educated by her eldest brother, Judge Heydenfeldt, and graduated at the principal seminary in Montgomery, Ala., with credit.

She married, in 1852, J. Julien Jacobus, a good and talented man, who, contrary to the general rule, was proud of his young wife's literary ability, and who now and then took pleasure in inditing poems complimentary to her genius. The reverent affection with which he regarded her to the end of his short life is the noblest panegyric we can offer her in the character of wife and mother-the hearth of home being the truest means by which to test the higher attributes of a good and gifted woman. In her home circle, her virtues shine pre-eminent, and sanctify the genius which they adorn. Death, however, soon entered this happy home, and gathered two lovely children to his breast, casting a deep gloom over the young mother's life, which a few years later was deepened by the death of her husband, who fell while defending his home and his country on the bloody plain of Shiloh. Death claimed few nobler victims than this young and talented man, who had already given bright promise of future pre-eminence in his profession as a member of the Georgia bar.

The deep devotion which Mrs. Jacobus pays to the education of her three promising children elicits our especial admiration. She is a woman of medium height, is slight and well formed, has regular features; she is habitually pale, and her face wears a thoughtful expression when in repose; her manner is quiet and retiring, and there is an atmosphere of marked refinement pervading her every movement.

Mrs. Jacobus is a Jewess by birth, (as are all the five sisters,) and, with that native pride so inherent in the Hebrew people, she brings up her children in accordance with the Jewish faith. (Her father was a Presbyterian.)

Mrs. Jacobus is still young, and though her life has been early clouded with sorrow, we hope she will yet emerge from her voluntary seclusion, and we confidently expect much that is good, true, and beautiful from her pen.

Her home is in Augusta, and she promises a book to the world at a not distant day.

THE FLORAL DAY.

I.

Bend low, let the blood on your cheek flush high,
As the belle and the beauty of earth sweeps by;
Take off your hat, and with gallant mien
Salute her there, 'midst the sad refrain.
Brightly she glides thro' the motley throng,
Gayly she smiles as she floats along;
Join the proud pageant with courtly bend,
Welcome her there as the soldier's friend.

II.

Matchless in beauty, not brighter the skies
Than the gold of her hair, the blue of her eyes;
Not richer the damask that crimsons the rose
Than her cheek, as it flushes and smiles in repose.
Not whiter the lily, that fairy-like rides

In her emerald boat on the breast of the tides,

Than her brow, or more graceful the willow's bow wave
Than her form, as it glides o'er our brave soldier's grave.

III.

Softly she treads thro' the aisles of the dead,

Graceful she bends o'er the sleeper's brave head,

Gently she nestles a floweret there,

a tear.

And flings from her lashes her tribute-
Go, follow her; she is all beautiful, bright
As the starry-eyed flowers, all radiant and light
As her queen-sister Morn; both as bright, ay, as cold
As the soldier's clay corpse that lies under the mould.

IV.

Go, follow her; glance not behind at the form
Clad in black-bending sadly, alone, and forlorn
O'er the mound of her dead. Ah! she cannot forget:
The eyes of the sleeper seem watching her yet;
As she kneels, all oblivious of beauty and pride,
A brave manly form fondly stands by her side,
And dreaming she smiles-till the grass as it sighs
Parts over the spot where her brave soldier lies.

V.

Ah! it all rushes back, she remembers it now,
And presses in anguish her pained, burning brow,
And stifles the sob that is bursting to break
The bonds of her heart. O God! could it take
Her on high; could her life with her prayer
Rise up from his grave-up, upward in air,
All perfect and pure unto heaven? No-no!

She must live on, and learn how to struggle with woe.

VI.

Yet 't was sweet once to hear, in her desolate grief,

The world call him "gallant," "brave," "fearless"-ah! brief
Is such praise. When the gallant young hero is slain,

The world stands aghast; but time in his train
Grasps up the reft cord where he left it, and on,
On it flies thro' the woof, and midnight and morn
Break alike on the world: her weary young heart
Has the honor to break. She has played well her part.

VII.

And now as the "floral day" * dawns on the world,
She has come, like the rest, on his grave to unfurl
Her banner of blooms, fit emblems to wave
O'er that sanctified spot- a Confederate's grave.

As she bends, in her coarse sable dress, o'er his mound,

A fairy, light step treads on the loose ground,

And glancing unbidden, beholds at her side

The beautiful belle - once her maid when a bride.

VIII.

Oh! can it be? can such a dreary change fall

On a home once so bright? now draped in the pall

Of death and starvation. She glances again,

And there in the gay and glittering train

* 26th April.