Ah, me! it is a dreary thing to feel alone in the world-to have no eye brighten at our coming, no voice ever ready with its eager welcoming, nothing to tell us we are beloved, and that fond thoughts and wishes are around our onward pathway. O, ye who have never felt this worst of desolations-ye whose best affections bind ye still, who have no link broken, no yearnings unfulfilled, fold to your hearts the precious blessing that lives in domestic ties and speaks in household love, and greet kindly and gently those whose life is lonely—who look around them and find no answering gaze, who pine with many tears for one glimpse of the tenderness whose living light is daily yours, who go forward sadly and silently, with none to love them, save those who are angels in Heaven. sensitive for her ever to be thoughtlessly happy. Her look and manner were peculiarly winning in their tranquil, subdued gentleness; and when this was, occasionally, though rarely, laid aside for awhile, amid the irrepressible mirth of childish amusement, her laugh had the ringing, silvery melody which seems the musical essence of enjoyment. For two successive summers we met and were inseparably intimate, and then four years elapsed before we were again together. During this interval Mary's mother died, and she went far from my home, to reside with a distant relation. We had, from our first parting, corresponded regularly, and her letters were, like herself, poetical and visionary. I know not wherefore, for she wrote no murmur, but they left the impression that she was not satisfied with her new home, and my heart yearned to comfort her, But there is a romance in every one's experience, to remove from her lot its loneliness, from her soul its evanescent though it be; and at length its bright change dimness. But she shrunk, with what then appeared to rose upon Mary's existence. I heard she was soon to me morbid delicacy, from all approach to confidence be married, to a young clergyman, of whom all spoke on this subject, and gradually grew in all things less in terms of approval and admiration. I sincerely recommunicative regarding herself, as if doubting the rejoiced at an event so calculated to relieve at once her sponse of sympathy. There was evidently a constraint placed on her spontaneous emotions-a quiet concealment of her deeper interests, which to me spoke mournfully, and recalled that silent, dejected consciousness of mental and spiritual solitude, which is the saddest portion and the most touching consequence of an orphan's unshared and melancholy destiny. It was not until long afterward that I learned the domestic trials and annoyances to which she had been subjected, and the dreary, joyless routine in which she dragged on the years that should have been her brightest ones. It was with many a sweet anticipation of friendly, unreserved intercourse and affectionate solace-such dreams as are borne by loving angels to hearts strong in youth and rich in tenderness, that I looked impatiently forward to my next meeting with my old playmate, for now we had both glided from childhood to womanhood, and the firm bond was between us that links those who remember together. Ishall never forget my astonishment when, after our first fond and impetuous greeting, I turned, with tearful eyes, to mark the alteration time had wrought in the appearance of my companion. She was calm and composed, almost to coldness, and there was no visible exhibition of the agitation struggling beneath, or of all the afflicting reminiscences which I knew were recalled by looking on my face again. She had grown from the timid, irresolute girl, to the proud, self-possessed woman, and her manner had the tranquil air of one aware of her own moral strength, and of the existence of impulses and feelings too pure and sacred to be lightly displayed to a world which had nothing in common with them. She was more beautiful than ever, and I have never seen a being whose polished, intellectual tranquillity was so faultlessly graceful. She had acquired the early maturity of mind given in kindness to those who are tried in their youth; for she had evidently "thought too long and darkly;" her feelings were still from their intensity, and hers was the reflective repose which, wearied and desponding, folds its drooping pinions and sleeps on the bosom of darkness. perplexities and regrets, and to summon sweet visions for one who had too long lived without affection in the world. I wrote to her, expressing all I felt-all my fervent hopes for her dawning welfare. I longed impatiently for her answer, anxious to discover if she realized as I wished the brighter career opening before her; but several weeks wended on, and brought me no reply. It was from another source I learned the dangerous and protracted illness of her lover, and a paper, tremulously directed by Mary's hand, at length informed me of his death. Finally a letter came, with its black seal. It was the last farewell of one who loved me-the last pouring forth of tenderness from a heart that was broken; and yet, sorrowful as those lines were, they spoke of hopes unshadowed and immortal-of a pilgrimage troubled and toilsome, but full of reward, and of all an enthusiast's delusive anticipations in the sacred enterprise before her. She wrote on the eve of her departure from her native land, and with her singular, acquired shrinking from the avowal of her feelings, she made no allusion to the connection recently broken; and not a word revealed the grief that clouded over her fairest prospects and sent her forth an exile. Frequently afterward I saw her name mentioned as one of unwavering zeal in her adopted cause, and faithfully devoted to the laborious responsibilities of her mission. But between herself and her early friends a gulf seemed to be, perhaps because she did not wish to revive the overpowering recollections of the past. The absence of all communication with those once dear to her, must have been intentional, for she was not one to forget. Three years of this unbroken existence of care and labor had gone by, and then I had thus accidentally learned the mournful doom of a being endowed with all earth's purest impulses, yet so soon recalled from its wanderings. Hers is no uncommon history-for many such are on our daily annals. O! give them kind thoughts and words, for these are the sad heart's treasured gems! THIS WORLD OF OURS. BY S. D. ANDERSON. THIS world of ours is beautiful-right beautiful, I ween, Are all its mountains tipt with gold, its valleys tinged with green, Its thousand laughing streams that sport, half sunshine and half shade, Like love's first herald seen upon the rosy cheeked maid. The springing flowers are beautiful that open to the day, And spread their perfume far and wide along the sunny way; The vine-clad rocks and shady dells that bask in beauty's sheen ; This world of ours is beautiful-wherever it is seen. This world of ours was beautiful in those good olden days When knights would battle valiantly for ladies' smiles and praise; When in the list and on the turf, with lance and spear and sword, The waters gladly danced around the castles old and proud, And from the latticed balconies, upon the passing crowd, Gleamed forth the light of beauty's eye-Venetia's daughters fair, With hearts as pure as were the gems that glistened in their hair; As bold in danger, true in love, as brave men's brides should be; Oh! was not the world beautiful when Venice ruled the sea? This world of ours was beautiful when 'neath Italia's skies Her passion sons, like meteor stars, flashed on their wondering eyes. Born in that sunny clime of love, where beauty tints the air, And earth and ocean, sun and shade, are more divinely fair; These iron-handed men would meet no bond but plighted No marvel that their minds upgrew full freighted with word. Each castle was a fortress then; each man could bend the bow, Or lead the dance, or join the song with voice as soft and low, As maidens when at night they hear their lovers' whispered praise; Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good olden days? This world of ours was beautiful, when troubadours first sang, And castle hall and cottage roof with love and glory rang; When high-born damsels clustered round-perhaps to hear of one Who joined the armies of the Cross, to fight 'neath Syria's sun; How he had borne the banner high amid the thickest fight, And placed his name where it will shine like stars amid the night; And then bright eyes would brighter beam, despite the truant tear; Oh! was not the world beautiful when minstrelsy was here? each tone, And Love and Beauty sheltered them within their magic zone, Till all they saw and all they felt found in each work a birth; Oh! was not the world beautiful when Genius walked the earth? This world of ours was beautiful when by fair Arno's stream Sweet Florence lay bedecked with gifts, like beauty in her dream; So soft her skies, so mild her suns, such perfume in each breeze, Such songs of gladness from her plains, such flowers upon the trees; And then her dowered children stood like jewels in her crown, Or sun-clad monuments on which Time's rays come proudly down, To gild with beauty e'en decay-but what decay hast thou? Oh! was not the world beautiful when Florence decked her brow? This world of ours was beautiful in England's palmy times, This world of ours was beautiful when Rome was great When merrily from church and tower pealed out the sporand free, And proudly shone her mountain-bird, the type of Liberty; When Freedom found a resting-place within those trophied walls, And circled with her eagle wing its temples and its halls; When on the yellow Tiber's wave the shouts of victory came, And pride and glory mingled with the conqueror's lauded name; Then came the proud triumphal march, the heroes crowned with bays; tive chimes, When deep within the greenwood haunts dwelt honest men and free, With hearts as gay and minds as light as birds upon the tree; Right honestly the day was passed; at night, upon the green, All joining in the merry dance the young and old were seen, And many a jocund song was sung, and many a tale was told; Oh! was not the world beautiful in those her palmy days? Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good days of old? This world of ours was beautiful when Venice ruled the tide, And thousand voices rose to greet the old man's ocean bride; This world of ours was beautiful when valiant men and true Spread their white sails, and sought a home beyond the waters blue They found it 'neath the forest old, 'mid wild and savage men, Beside the ocean's rocky shore, within the mountain glen; To link each man to brother man, with links of firmest steel; Then touch the spark of sympathy, and all the shock will feel; And there was heard the childish laugh, and there the Stamp the nobility of truth upon each deathless soul; mother's tone, Brought joy and gladness in their sound to many an altarstone; Men toiled and strove, and strove and toiled, through all the weary hours, Oh! was not the world beautiful, this western world of ours? This world of ours was beautiful, when Freedom first awoke, Its cradle song the trumpet call, its toy the sabre stroke, Full armed, like Pallas, then she stood amid the deadly fight, And man by man stood boldly up, and clenched their hands of might, The tempest came, no cheek turned pale, no heart unnerved with fear, They grasped their swords more tightly then-'t was victory or a bier; Long was the struggle, hard the fight, but liberty was won; Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath such pure control? This world of ours was beautiful, and still is so to me; Since boyish days I've clung to it, with wildness and with glee; Have laughed when others talked of wo beneath so fair a sky, When time, like flights of singing birds, with melody went by, Have roved amid its fairy bowers, and drank of every stream Of joy and gladness, till I lived within a blissful dream, And life, deep ladened with its fruits, slept like a weary child; This world of ours is beautiful as 't was when Eden smiled? This world of ours is beautiful despite what cynics say; There must be storms in winter time as well as flowers in May; Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath fair Freedom's But what of that?-there's joy in both the sunshine and sun? This world of ours was beautiful in times long, long ago, When those good men of earnest souls dwelt with us here below; Large was their faith in human kind; their mission seemed to be the shade, The light upon the mountain-top, the shadow in the glade. Be free of Soul, and firm of Heart, read all life's lessons Nor look for roses in the snow, nor sunbeams in the night. To teach man all his duties here-Love, Faith and Energy, And then this world is beautiful, as beautiful can be. THIS bird is one of the largest of the vultures. The early Spanish writers on America gave the most exaggerated accounts of its size and strength; and its true history and dimensions have been only recently ascertained. The bird was compared with the Roc of the Arabian romance writers. Acosta says that the bird called Condor is able singly to eviscerate and devour a whole sheep or a calf. Garcilaso de la Vega makes them measure 16 feet from tip to tip of the extended wings; he says their beaks are sufficiently strong to perforate and tear off a bull's hide, and to rip out its entrails; and that a single Condor "will set upon and slay boys of ten or twelve years;" which last exaggeration, though now exploded, has found its way into our common school geographies. Investigation has shown that the Condor is merely a large, perhaps not the largest of the vultures. "The Condor," writes Mr. Bennett, "forms the type of a genus, a second species of which is the Vultur papa of Linnæus, the king of the vultures of British writers. They are both peculiar to the New World, but approach in their most essential characters very closely to the vultures of the Old Continent, differing from the latter principally in the large, fleshy, or rather cartilaginous, caruncle which surmounts their beaks, in the large size of their oval and longitudinal nostrils, placed almost at the very extremity of the cere; and in the comparative length of their quill feathers, the third being the longest of the series. The most important of these differences, the size and position of their nos trils, appears to be well calculated to add to the already highly powerful sense of smell possessed by the typical vulture, and for which the birds have been almost proverbially celebrated from the earliest ages. There is also a third species, the Californian vulture, two noble specimens of which, the only pair in Europe, are preserved in the London Zoological Society's Museum, rivaling the Condor in bulk, and agreeing in every respect with the generic characters of the group, except in the existence of the caruncle, of which they are entirely destitute. "In size the Condor is little, if at all, superior to the Bearded Griffin, the Lämmergeyer of the Alps, with which Buffon was disposed conjecturally to confound it, but to which it bears at most but a distant relation. The greatest authentic measurement scarcely carries the extent of its wings beyond fourteen feet, and it appears rarely to attain so gigantic a size. M. Humboldt met with none that exceeded nine feet, and was assured by many credible inhabitants of the province of Quito that they had never shot any that measured more than eleven. The length of a male specimen somewhat less than nine feet in expanse was three feet three inches from the tip of the beak to the extremity of the tail; and its height, when perching with the neck partly withdrawn, two feet eight inches. Its beak was too inches and three quarters in length, and an inch and a quarter in depth when closed. "The beak of the Condor is straight at the base, but | the upper mandible becomes arched toward the point, and terminates in a strong and well curved hook. The basal half is of an ash brown, and the remaining portion, toward the point, is nearly white. The head and neck are bare of feathers, and covered with hard, wrinkled, dusky reddish skin, on which are scattered some short brown or blackish hairs. On the top of the head, which is much flattened above, and extending some distance along the beak, is attached an oblong firm caruncle or comb, covered by a continuation of the skin which invests the head. This organ is peculiar to the male. It is connected to the beak only in its anterior part, and is separated from it at the base in such a manner as to allow a free passage of the air to the large oval nostrils, which are situated beneath it at that part. Beyond the eyes, which are somewhat elongated, and not sunk beneath the general surface of the head, the skin of the neck is, as it were, gathered into a series of descending folds, extending obliquely from the back of the head over the temples, to the under side of the neck, and there connected anteriorly with a lax membrane or wattle, capable of being dilated at pleasure, like that of the common turkey. The neck is marked by numerous deep parallel folds, produced by the habit of retractiug the head, in which the bird indulges when at rest. In this position scarcely any part of the neck is visible. Round the lower part of the neck both sexes, the female as well as the male, are furnished with a broad white ruff of downy feathers, which forms the line of separation between the naked skin above and the true feathers covering the body below it. All the other feathers, with the exception of the wing coverts, and the secondary quill feathers, are of a bright black, generally mingled with a grayish tinge of greater or less intensity. In the female the wing coverts are blackish gray; but the males have their points, and frequently as much as half their length, white. The wings of the latter are consequently distinguished from those of the female by their large white patches. The secondary quill feathers of both sexes are white on the outer side. The tail is short and wedge shaped. The legs are excessively thick and powerful, and are colored of a blueish gray, intermingled with whitish streaks. Their elongated toes are united at the base by a loose but very apparent membrane, and are terminated by long black talons of considerable thickness, but very little curved. The hinder toe is shorter than the rest, and its talon, although more distinctly curved, is equally wanting in strength, a deficiency which renders the foot much less powerful as an organ of prehension than that of any other of the large birds of the raptorial order." The Condor is found in various parts of the vast mountain chain on the western border of the American continent, but it is most common in Peru and Chili. Its habitation is most frequently at an elevation of 10,000 or 15,000 feet above the level of the sea, and there these birds are seen in groups of three or four, but never in large companies like the true vultures. Some of the mountain peaks bear names which in the Indian tongue mean Condor's Look-out, Condor's Roost and Condor's Nest. Two of them will attack a vicuna, a heifer or even a puma, and overcome it by repeated strokes of their beaks and talons. When gorged, says Humboldt, they sit sullen and sombre on the rocks; and when thus overloaded with food they will suffer themselves to be driven before the hunter rather than take wing. They do not attack men or even children, although it is admitted that two of them would be a match for a powerful man without weapons. Sir Francis Head gives an amusing account of a contest between one of his Cornish miners and a gorged Condor, which lasted an hour, and terminated in the escape of the bird. EDITOR'S TABLE. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. MY DEAR JEREMY.-I presume you are shaking the spray from your locks, and are over head and ears in love with salt water, while I am among the weeping willows in these days of hydrophobia, when water-that we cannot get at-provokes a feeling of madness. You glory in a proprietorship over which your plough passes, turning up soil that is all your own, while the nodding grain, golden and pulpy, ripens in your absence for your abundant granaries, while I cultivate this, my small patch, "a tenaut at will," whose harvest of gleaning would be blown to the winds without a painstaking care and watchfulness. You are the lord of acres, while I wander around forbidden enclosures, and look upon many a Castle of Indolence longing but for a yard of ground all my own, upon which to plant a firm foot, to sound the challenge and cry-war! The very utterness of poverty is grandeur and riches, compared to the feeling of having the pent-up energies, which have found a full outlet in enterprise, growing fiery in inaction, and panting for room, continually battling at the heart, and knocking in vain for freedom and exercise. But if you have ever felt the utter insignificance of wealth and high advantage combined with indolence and inactivity, and forever do-nothingness, before the godlike attributes of persevering energy and indomitable will, you have felt the pride of manhood in its full force and power. You have reaped in anticipation the rewards of high courage, of manly resolve, of personal industry and victory. You have enjoyed in your day-dreams the full fruition of assured success-and awoke to hope on, to resolve and to conquer. Consider me, my dear Jeremy, as winding myself up for the next seven years, after having run down-as having stopped, if you please, to blow; and while you are luxuriating in the surf, and shaking the briny water from your shoulders, as throwing off surfdom, with a defiant air, and a determined purpose of taking a few strides forward, to meet that "good time a coming." Who does not love the sound of the breakers at Cape May, who has once listened to their wild melody? What a chance for love-making is the evening stroll upon the beach. On the one side the rugged bank, on which the white houses sit like a flock of wild-birds suddenly alighted, and the faint twinkle of rush-like lights dancing like fire-flies in the night air; on the other, the wild waters-sad emblem of the wild unrest of the human heart-their huge waves reflecting from their sides the quiet light of the moon, |