royal octavo, and illustrated by seventy engravings; and shortly after, produced three biographical and historical pamphlets of upwards of one hundred pages each; together with the Lives of the Signers of the Declaration of Independence, a duodecimo volume of over four hundred pages. This, and the subsequent year, he also edited a small paper entitled The Young People's Mirror, published by Edward Walker, which met with a ready reception from that class of the community.

In June, 1848, Mr. Los ing conceived the idea and plan of the Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution. He defined the size of the proposed pages; drew some rough sketches in sepia as indications of the manner in which he intended to introduce the illustrations, and with a general description of the plan of his work, submitted it to the consideration of the Messrs. Harper and Brothers. Four days afterwards they had concluded a bargain with him, involving an expenditure of much labor and many thousands of dollars; and something within a month afterwards Mr. Lossing was on his way to the battle-fields and other localities of interest connected with the war for Independence. In the collection of his materials, he travelled upwards of nine thousand miles, not in a continuous journey from place to place, but a series of journeys, undertaken whenever he could leave his regular business, the supervision of which he never omitted. Although the Field Book was upwards of four years in hand, yet the aggregate time occupied in travelling, making sketches and notes, drawing a large portion of the pictures on the blocks for engraving, and writing the work, was only about twenty months. The work was published in thirty numbers, the first issued on the first of June, 1850; the last in December, 1852. It was just beginning to be widely and generally known, and was enjoying a rapidly increasing sale, when the great conflagration of the Harpers' establishment in 1853 destroyed the whole remainder of the edition. It was out of print for a year, but a new and revised edition was put to press in March, 1855.

During portions of 1852-54, Mr. Lossing devoted much time to the preparation of an Illustrated History of the United States for schools and families; and early in 1855 completed a work of four hundred pages which he entitled Our Countrymen, containing numerous brief sketches with portraits on wood of remarkable persons eminent by their connexion with the history of the United States.

During the last three years, Mr. Lossing has been engaged in collecting materials for an elaborate illustrated history of the war of 1812, and also a history of the French Empire in America; each to be uniform in size of page and style with his Field Book. He has also formed an association with Mr. Lyman C. Draper, well known throughout the west as an indefatigable collector of traditions, manuscripts, journals, letters, &c., relating to the history and biography of the settlements and settlers beyond the Alleganies, for the purpose of producing a series of volumes commencing with the life of Daniel Boone.

Mr. Lossing has also contributed many valuable papers to various publications of the day, especially to Harpers' Magazine, in a series of American

biographical articles in which his pen and pencil are equally employed.

ANN S. STEPHENS.

MRS. STEPHENS is a native of Connecticut. She married at an early age and removed to Portland, Maine, where she commenced and continued for some time, the Portland Magazine. In 1836 she edited the Portland Sketch Book, a collection of Miscellanies by the writers of the state. She afterwards removed with her husband to New York, where she has since resided.

Ann Bephen

A tale from her pen, Mary Derwent, won a prize of four hundred dollars offered by one of the periodicals, and its publication brought the auther prominently forward as a popular writer for the magazines, to which she has contributed a large number of tales, sketches, and poems. Her last and most elaborate work is the novel of Fashion and Famine, a story of the contrasts of city life. It is of the intense school, and contains many scenes of questionable taste and probability, with much that is excellent in description and the delineation of character. One of the best drawn personages of the book is a well to do and kindly huckster woman of Fulton Market. The scenes about her stall, and at the farm whose abundance constantly replenishes her stock, are in a pleasant vein. The chief interest of the plot centres on a trial for murder, and the scenes connected with it are written with energy and effect. We present the introduction of the Strawberry Girl to the market-woman in the opening scene of the book.

THE STRAWBERRY GIRL.

Like wild flowers on the mountain side,
Goodness may be of any soil;

Yet intellect, in all its pride,

And energy, with pain and toil,
Hath never wrought a holier thing
Than Charity in humble birth.
God's brightest angel stoops his wing,

To meet so much of Heaven on earth.

The morning had not fully dawned on New York, yet its approach was visible everywhere amid the fine scenery around the city. The dim shadows piled above Weehawken were warming up with purple, streaked here and there with threads of rosy gold. The waters of the Hudson heaved and rippled to the glow of yellow and crimson light, that came and went in flashes on cach idle curl of the waves. Long Island lay in the near distance like a thick, purplish cloud, through which the dim outline of house, tree, mast and spire loomed mistily, like halfformed objects on a camera obscura.

Silence that strange, dead silence that broods over a scene crowded with slumbering life-lay upon the city, broken only by the rumble of vegetable carts and the jar of milk-cans, as they rolled up from the different ferries; or the half-smothered roar of some steamboat putting into its dock, freighted with sleeping passengers.

After a little, symptoms of aroused life became visible about the wharves. Grocers, carmen, and huckster-women began to swarm around the provision boats. The markets nearest the water were opened, and soon became theatres of active bustle.

The first market opened that day was in Fulton

street. As the morning deepened, piles of vegetables, loads of beef, hampers of fruit, heaps of luscious butter, cages of poultry, canary birds swarming in their wiry prisons, forests of green-house plants, horse-radish grinders with their reeking machines, venders of hot coffee, root beer and dough nuts, all with men, women, and childrens warming in, over, and among them, like so many ants, hard at work, filled the spacious arena, but late a range of silent, naked, and gloomy looking stalls. Then carts, laden and groaning beneath a weight of food, came rolling up to this great mart, crowding each avenue with fresh supplies. All was life and eagerness. Stout men and bright-faced women moved through the verdant chaos, arranging, working, chatting, all full of life and enterprise, while the rattling of carts outside, and the gradual accumulation of sounds everywhere, bespoke a great city aroused, like a giant refreshed, from slumber.

Slowly there arose out of this cheerful confusion, forms of homely beauty, that an artist or a thinking man might have loved to look upon. The butchers' stalls, but late a desolate range of gloomy beams, were reddening with fresh joints, many of them festooned with fragrant branches and gorgeous garden flowers. The butchers standing, each by his stall, with snow-white apron, and an eager, joyous look of traffic on his face, formed a display of comfort and plenty, both picturesque and pleasant to contemplate.

The fruit and vegetable stands were now loaded with damp, green vegetables, each humble root having its own peculiar tint, often arranged with a singular taste for color, unconsciously possessed by the woman who exercised no little skill in setting off her stand to advantage.

There was one vegetable stand to which we would draw the reader's particular attention; not exactly as a type of the others, for there was something so unlike all the rest, both in this stall and its occupant, that it would have drawn the attention of any person possessed of the slightest artistical taste. It was like the arrangement of a picture, that long table heaped with fruit, the freshest vegetables, and the brightest flowers, ready for the day's traffic. Rich scarlet radishes glowing up through their foliage of tender green, were contrasted with young onions swelling out from their long emerald stalks, snowy and transparent as so many great pearls. Turnips, scarcely larger than a hea's egg, and nearly as white, just taken fresh and fragrant from the soil, lay against heads of lettuce, tinged with crisp and greenish gold, piled against the deep blackish green of spinach and water-cresses, all moist with dew, or wet with bright water-drops that had supplied its place, and taking a deeper tint from the golden contrast. These with the red glow of strawberries in their luscious prime, piled together in masses, and shaded with fresh grape leaves; bouquets of roses, hyacinths, violets, and other fragrant blossoms, lent their perfume and the glow of their rich colors to the coarser children of the soil, and would have been an object pleasant to look upon, independent of the fine old woman who sat complacently on her little stool, at one end of the table, in tranquil expectation of customers that were sure to drop in as the morning deepened.

And now the traffic of the day commenced in earnest. Servants,housekeepers, and grocers, swarmed into the market. The clink of money-the sound of sharp, eager banter-the dull noise of the butcher's cleaver, were heard on every hand. It was a pleasant scene, for every face looked smiling and happy. The soft morning air seemed to have brightened all things into cheerfulness,

With the earliest group that entered Fulton market that morning was a girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, but tiny in her form, and appearing far more juvenile than that. A pretty quilted hood, of rose-colored calico, was turned back from her face, which seemed naturally delicate and pale; but the fresh air, and perhaps a shadowy reflection from her hood, gave the glow of a rose-bud to her cheeks. Still there was anxiety upon her young face. Her eyes of a dark violet blue, drooped heavily beneath their black and curling lashes,

any one from the numerous stalls addressed her; for a small splint basket on her arm, new and perfectly empty, was a sure indication that the child had been sent to make purchase; while her timid air-the blush that came and went on her face-bespoke as plainly that she was altogether unaccustomed to the scene, and had no regular place at which to make her humble bargains. The child seemed a waif cast upon the market; and she was so beautiful, notwithstanding her humble dress of faded and darned calico, that at almost every stand she was challenged pleasantly to pause and fill her basket. But she only cast down her eyes and blushed more deeply, as with her little bare feet she hurried on through the labyrinth of stalls, toward that portion of the market occupied by the huckster-women. Here she began to slacken her pace, and to look about her with no inconsiderable anxiety.

What do you want, little girl; anything in my way?" was repeated to her once or twice as she moved forward. At each of these challenges she would pause, look earnestly into the face of the speaker, and then pass on with a faint wave of the head, that expressed something of sad and timid disappointment.

At length the child-for she seemed scarcely more than that was growing pale, and her eyes turned with a sort of sharp anxiety from one face to another, when suddenly they fell upon the buxom old huckster-woman, whose stall we have described. There was something in the good dame's appearance that brought an eager and satisfied look to that pale face. She drew close to the stand, and stood for some seconds, gazing timidly on the old woman. It was a pleasant face, and a comfortable, portly form enough, that the timid girl gazed upon. Smooth and comely were the full and rounded cheeks, with their rich autumn color, dimpled like an over-ripe apple. Fat and good-humored enough to defy wrinkles, the face looked far too rosy for the thick, grey hair that was shaded, not concealed, by a cap of clear white muslin, with a broad, deep border, and tabs that met like a snowy girth to support the firm, double chin. Never did your eyes dwell upon a chin so full of health and good humor as that. It sloped with a sleek, smiling grace down from the plump mouth, and rolled with a soft, white wave into the neck, scarcely leaving an outline, or the want of one, before it was lost in the white of that muslin kerchief, folded so neatly beneath the ample bosom of her gown. Then the broad linen apron of blue and white check, girding her waist, and flowing over the smooth rotundity of person, was a living proof of the ripeness and wholesome state of her merchandise.— I tell you, reader, that woman, take her for all in all, was one to draw the attention, aye, and the love of a child, who had come forth barefooted and alone in search of kindness.

RALPH HOYT.

Mr. HoYT, the author of a number of poems which have become popular favorites through their spirit and sincerity, is a clergyman of the

Protestant Episcopal Church in New York. He is a native of the city. His early years were passed in the country on Long Island. He had the benefit of a good education, and after some practice at various mechanical pursuits, became himself a teacher in turn, wrote occasionally for the newspapers, and in 1842 took orders in the church. In 1846 the church of the Good Shepherd was organized as the result of the missionary labors of Mr. Hoyt, who has since continued its minister, supporting its feeble fortunes through many privations. He has latterly resided at a cottage pleasantly situated on the high ground in the rear of the Palisades, at the village of Fort Lee, New Jersey, opposite New York; and he has there shown his accustomed spirit and activity, his humble home being partly the work of his own hands, while a simple but convenient church, of small but sufficient dimensions, on the main street of the village, has been built by his own labor and ingenuity, with moderate aid from his friends. He holds religious services there a part of each Sunday.

Aalph Hayh

Mr. Hoyt's poems are simple in expression, and of a delicate moral or devout sentiment. They touch tenderly upon the disappointments of life, with a sorrowful refrain. In another mood his verse is hopeful and animated. The title of his longest poem, The Chaunt of Life, which is but a fragmentary composition, indicates the burden of his song; which is of the common feelings, longings, and experiences of the world. A cheerful love of nature, an eye for the picturesque, a quaint originality of expression, are exhibited in many of his poems, which have already found their way into the popular collections of the school-books.

SNOW; A WINTER SKETCH.

The blessed morn has come again;
The early gray

Taps at the slumberer's window pane,
And seems to say

Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely glade
Have cast their green,

And joined the revel, all arrayed
So white and clean.

E'en the old posts, that hold the bars
And the old gate,

Forgetful of their wintry wars,
And age sedate,

High capped, and plumed, like white hussars,
Stand there in state.

The drifts are hanging by the sill,
The eaves, the door;

The hay-stack has become a hill;
All covered o'er

The wagon, loaded for the mill
The eve before.

Maria brings the water-pail,

But where's the well!

Like magic of a fairy tale,

Most strange to tell,

All vanished, curb, and crank, and rail!

How deep it fell!

The barn-yard gentry, musing, chime
Their morning moan;

Like Memnon's music of old time
That voice of stone!

So marbled they-and so sublime
Their solemn tone.

Good Ruth has called the younker folk
To dress below;

Full welcome was the word she spoke,
Down, down they go,
The cottage quietude is broke,-

The snow!-the snow!

Now rises from around the fire
A pleasant strain;

Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire!
And ye profane!

A hymn to the Eternal Sire
Goes up again.

The patriarchal Book divine,
Upon the knee,

Opes where the gems of Judah shine,

(Sweet minstrelsie !)

How soars each heart with each fair line,
Oh God, to Thee!

Around the altar low they bend,
Devout in prayer;

As snows upon the roof descend,
So angels there

Come down that household to defend
With gentle care.

Now sings the kettle o'er the blaze;
The buckwheat heaps;

Rare Mocha, worth an Arab's praise,
Sweet Susan steeps;

The old round stand her nod obeys,
And out it leaps.

Unerring presages declare

The banquet near;

Soon busy appetites are there;

And disappear

The glories of the ample fare,
With thanks sincere.

Now tiny snow-birds venture nigh

From copse

and spray,

(Sweet strangers! with the winter's sky To pass away;)

And gather crumbs in full supply,
For all the day.

Let now the busy hours begin:

Out rolls the churn;

Forth hastes the farm-boy, and brings in The brush to burn;

Sweep, shovel, scour, sew, knit, and spin, 'Till night's return.

To delve his threshing John must hie;
His sturdy shoe

Can all the subtle damp defy;

How wades he through!

While dainty milkmaids slow and shy,
His track pursue.

Each to the hour's allotted care;

To shell the corn;

The broken harness to repair;
The sleigh t' adorn;

As cheerful, tranquil, frosty, fair,
Speeds on the morn.

While mounts the eddying smoke amain
From many a hearth,

And all the landscape rings again
With rustic mirth;

So gladsome seems to every swain
The snowy earth.

THE WORLD-SALE.

There wandered from some mystic sphere,
A youth, celestial, down to earth;
So strangely fair seemed all things here,
He e'en would crave a mortal birth;
And soon, a rosy boy, he woke,

A dweller in some stately dome;
Soft sunbeams on his vision broke,

And this low world became his home. Ah, cheated child! Could he but know Sad soul of mine, what thou and I! The bud would never wish to blow, The nestling never long to fly; Perfuming the regardless air,

High soaring into empty space; A blossom ripening to despair,

A flight-without a resting place!

How bright to him life's opening morn!
No cloud to intercept a ray;
The rose had then no hidden thorn,
The tree of life knew no decay.
How greeted oft his wondering soul
The fairy shapes of childish joy,
As gaily on the moments stole
And still grew up the blooming boy.

How gently played the odorous air
Among his wavy locks of gold,
His eye how bright, his cheek how fair,
As still youth's summer days were told.
Seemed each succeeding hour to tell

Of some more rare unfolding grace;
Some swifter breeze his sail to swell,
And press the voyager apace!

He roved a swain of some sweet vale,
Or climbed, a daring mountaineer;
And oft, upon the passing gale,

His merry song we used to hear;
Might none e'er mount a fleeter steed,
His glittering chariot none outvie,
Or village mart, or rural mead,
The hero he of heart and eye.

Anon a wishful glance he cast

Where storied thrones their empire hold, And soon beyond the billowy Vast He leaped upon the shores of old! He sojourned long in classic halls, At learning's feast a favored guest, And oft within imperial walls,

He tasted all delights, save-rest i
It was a restless soul he bore,

And all unquenchable its fire;
Nor banquet, pomp, nor golden store,
Could e'er appease its high desire.
And yet would he the phantom band
So oft deceiving still pursue,
Delicious sweets in every land,

But ah, not lasting, pure, or true!
He knelt at many a gorgeous shrine;
Reclined in love's voluptuous bowers;
Yet did his weary soul repine,

Were listless still the lingering hours.
Then sped an argosie to bear

The sated truant to his home,
But sorrow's sombre cloud was there,
"Twas dark in all that stately dome.
Was rent at last life's fair disguise,

And that Immortal taught to know
He had been wandering from the skies,
Alas, how long-alas, how low.
Deluded, but the dream was done;
A conqueror,-but his banner furled;
The race was over,-he had won,-
But found his prize-a worthless World!
Oh Earth, he sighed, and gazed afar,
How thou encumberest my wing!
My home is yonder radiant star,

But thither thee I cannot bring.
How have I tried thee long and well,
But never found thy joys sincere,
Now, now my soul resolves to sell

Thy treasures strewn around me here!
The flatteries I so long have stored
In memory's casket one by one,
Must now be stricken from the hoard;
The day of tinselled joy is done!
Here go the useless jewels! see

The golden lustre they impart!
But vain the smiles of earth for me,
They cannot gild a broken heart!

THE WORLD FOR SALE!-Hang out the sign;
Call every traveller here to me;
Who'll buy this brave estate of mine,

And set me from earth's bondage free! "Tis going!-yes, I mean to fling

The bauble from my soul away; I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring;

The World at Auction here to-day! It is a glorious thing to see;

Ah, it has cheated me so sore! It is not what it seems to be:

For sale! It shall be mine no more: Come, turn it o'er and view it well;

I would not have you purchase dear; 'Tis going-going! I must sell!

Who bids! Who'll buy the Splendid Tear! Here's Wealth in glittering heaps of gold, Who bids! but let me tell you fair, A baser lot was never sold;

Who'll buy the heavy heaps of care!
And here, spread out in broad domain,
A goodly landscape all may trace;
Hall, cottage, tree, field, hill and plain;
Who'll buy himself a Burial Place!
Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell
That beauty flings around the heart!
I know its power, alas, too well!

"Tis going! Love and I must part!
Must part! What can I more with Love!
All over the enchanter's reign!
Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove,

An hour of bliss,—an age of Pain!
And Friendship,-rarest gem of earth,
(Who e'er hath found the jewel his?)
Frail, fickle, false and little worth,

Who bids for Friendship-as it is! "Tis going-going!-Hear the call; Once, twice, and thrice!-Tis very low! "Twas once my hope, my stay, my all,

But now the broken staff must go! Fame! hold the brilliant meteor high; How dazzling every gilded name! Ye millions, now's the time to buy!

How much for Fame! How much for Fame! Hear how it thunders! would you stand On high Olympus, far renowned, Now purchase, and a world command!And be with a world's curses crowned! Sweet star of Hope! with ray to shine In every sad foreboding breast, Save this desponding one of mine,

Who bids for man's last friend and best!
Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life,

This treasure should my soul sustain;
But Hope and I are now at strife,
Nor ever may unite again.

And Song!-For sale my tuneless lute;
Sweet solace, mine no more to hold;

The chords that charmed my soul are mute,
I cannot wake the notes of old!
Or e'en were mine a wizard shell,

Could chain a world in raptures high;
Yet now a sad farewell!--farewell!
Must on its last faint echoes die.
Ambition, fashion, show, and pride,
I part from all for ever now;
Grief is an overwhelming tide,

Has taught my haughty heart to bow.
Poor heart! distracted, ah, so long,

And still its aching throb to bear; How broken, that was once so strong; How heavy, once so free from care.

Ah, cheating earth!-could man but know,
Sad soul of mine, what thou and I,-
The bud would never wish to blow,
The nestling never long to fly!
Perfuming the regardless air;
High soaring into empty space;
A blossom ripening to despair,

A flight-without a resting place!
No more for me life's fitful dream;
Bright vision, vanishing away!
My bark requires a deeper stream;
My sinking soul a surer stay.
By death, stern sheriff! all bereft,

I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod;
The best of all I still have left,-
My Faith, my Bible, and my God.

STRIKE!

I've a liking for this "striking,"
If we only do it well;
Firm, defiant, like a giant,

Strike!-and make the effort tell!
One another, working brother,
Let us freely now advise:

For reflection and correction
Help to make us great and wise.
Work and wages, say the sages,

Go for ever hand in hand;
As the motion of an ocean,
The supply and the demand.
My advice is, strike for prices
Nobler far than sordid coin;
Strike with terror, sin and error,
And let man and master join.
Every failing, now prevailing,

In the heart or in the head,-
Make no clamor-take the hammer--
Drive it down,-and strike it dead!
Much the chopping, lopping, propping,
Carpenter, we have to do,

Ere the plummet, from the summit,
Mark our moral fabric true.
Take the measure of false pleasure;
Try each action by the square;
Strike a chalk-line for your walk-line:
Strike, to keep your footsteps there!
The foundation of creation

Lies in Truth's unerring laws;
Man of mortar, there's no shorter
Way to base a righteous cause.
Every builder, painter, gilder,
Man of leather, man of clothes,
Each mechanic in a panic

With the way his labor goes.
Let him reason thus in season;
Strike the root of all his wrong,
Cease his quarrels, mend his morals,
And be happy, rich, and strong.

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.-LEWIS GAYLORD

CLARK.

THE twin brothers Clark were born at Otisco, Onondaga county, New York, in the year 1810. Their father had served in the Revolutionary war, and was a man of reading and observation. Willis, on the completion of his education, under the care of this parent and the Rev. George Colton, a relative on his mother's side, went to Philadelphia, where he commenced a weekly periodical similar in plan to the New York Mir