roe a beautiful little jewel box. and when he 
presented it be certainly was—but no, I will not 
speak so positively. I wonder if Quin ever does 
drink now. I thought he seemed just the wee 
bit worse for liquor the last time we wont riding. 
And then I remember Harold’s saying that 
Quin was too fond of wine. 
November 19th—T he town clocks have just 
struck twelve, and I ought to be in bed, but I am 
not the least bit sleepy, and don’t mean to bo for 
some time to come. My Journal seems the only 
confidant I have, so I fly to it with everything, 
and this evening I want to write oft’ some 
of the exoitement I am in. I havo been sitting 
for the last half hour over the grate, thinking; 
looking back into my past life, looking forward 
into my future. I do not think I have been so 
happy lately as I used to be. I have been in 
such excitement all the while, I want to calm 
down now, to think over what has happened, 
quietly and seriously. I have promised this 
evening to become the wife of Quincy S b. 
How neatly all the needs are laid 
Within the ripening pod; 
How carefully the cells are made: 
This is the work of God. 
The lining is not harsh or rongh, 
Hut soft, or polished well; 
Each little seed has room enough 
Within its tiny celL 
How carefully the sides are closed 
Against thu winds and rain; 
For if ITo left the seeds exposed, 
They would not grow again. 
There’s no disorder anywhere 
In what my Bather does; 
He condescends to make with care 
The smallest flower that grows. 
So children who would learn from Him, 
Neat habits seek to gain, 
Oe they will waste much precious time, 
And do their work In vain. 
THE S-A-LIMON - . — (SAI.MO SAI jA.I1.) 
its first discovery, but they have deserted that 
river, also, and it is chronicled as a remarkable 
event, that one of the fish weighing eight pounds, 
was caught, in the year 1840, in the vicinity of 
Troy. The rivers of Oregon arc yet filled, at the 
migratory season, t^itb salmon, from the catching 
of which the Indians obtain much of their food; 
but, reasoning from analogy, we may couclude, 
that with the present rapid settlement of the 
State, the fish will speedily disappear. 
The migratory season commences toward the I 
close of the year, and lasts until the following 
spring. The powerful and active fish labors 
assiduously to surmount all obstacles, and leaps, 
at a bound, over falls to the height of fifteen feet 
Having reached the sources of the streams,, it 
deposits its ova in the gravelly bed, and then iu 
the spring returns to the sea, followed by tho 
young fry. By the beginning of summer not a 
solitary fish is to be found in their favorite fresh 
water haunts, where, only a few months before, 
they were counted by millions. Tho salmon is 
a beautiful fish, in color dark gray, and some¬ 
times spotted on (ho back, with a belly of silvery 
white. It is distinguished from all others in tho 
peculiarity of having two dorsal fins. In weight 
it sometimes goes as high as twenty-five pounds, 
but usually does not exceed ten to fifteen. 
The Salmon during the greater portion of its 
existence is a salt water fish, but. ascends the 
rivers and streams periodically for tho purpose 
of depositing its spawn. It is essentially an 
inhabitant of northern latitudes, being found iu 
the streams of Greenland, but never so far south 
as the Mediterranean. It seems to flourish best 
in waters remote from civilization, and dies out 
or disappears where mill-dams interrupt tho 
streams, and cultivated fields, villages and facto¬ 
ries are soon along their banks. 
Salmon were, in the early times of New Eng¬ 
land history, abundant in tho Connecticut and 
the. Merrimac; so much so, indeed, that fish¬ 
ermen compelled purchasers of shad to take a 
certain proportion of salmon, also, or lose their 
trade. They were formerly caught, abundantly 
in the first-named river as high up as Bellows 
Falls, Vt.; hut the writer has been assured by 
people living in that vicinity, that not one of 
those noble fish has been seen in the river at 
that point during tho past fifty years. The red 
man and tho salmon have disappeared together, 
and their favorite haunts are visited by them no 
more. Boston market is now supplied at, a high 
price from the wild regions of Maine and the 
British Provinces. 
The salmon was abundant in the Hudson at 
morning; told me lie toveo me, ana asseuior my 
hand in marriage. I did not tell him yes, nor 
could I throw away, at an instant's thought, the 
hearty, strong love he offered me, Harold has 
a large, true heart, and what am I, mild, care¬ 
less, foolish Lute, that I should thoughtlessly 
cast aside all its wealth? I asked him to wait 
until I knew my own mind more thoroughly; to 
give me more time; I would tell him when I had 
been at home and could think more quietly, for 
even I, heedless and thoughtless as they call me, 
deem the love of another heart too sacred a 
thing to toss away carelessly. I respect Harold, 
honor him, hut do 1 love him? I wish he had 
not spoken to me. I wish Nettie was hero; if 
I only had some one to advise me. 
September 18th. — I am at home again, in 
my own dear room — mine alone sinco Nettie 
left me — sitting by the southern window, look¬ 
ing away olf over tho hills. They are very 
beautiful, these hazy autumn days, all misty and 
purple as they are. 
Harold is coming to-night for a final answer. 
He sent me word this morning, and I told him to 
come. No, I cannot marry Harold; dear as he 
is to me as a friend, he cau never bo anything 
more. 1 have thought it over carefully, and cau 
come to no other conclusion than this. I shall 
refuse him. Poor Harold! I hope he will 
not mind it so very much. lie will soon find 
some one who will be just as much in love with 
him iv* I am not. Good looking, rich young law¬ 
yers do not usually go a begging In Rochester. 
Quin and bis mother got home last evening, so 
the little errand boy said when he brought me a 
basket of peaches “with Mr. S -k’s compli¬ 
ments,” this morning. I havo been reading and 
knitting to-day very qnietly, consequently it 
has been most completely “a la pancake,” as 
Juliet says. Aunty has a headache, so the 
piano is vetoed, cooking (for me) likewise, as 
done right or no; but I love him, oh, indeed 1 do. 
And I believe he is worthy of my love. Yes, I 
am snre of that; but still-. It seems as if I 
were under a spell. I had never supposed that 
Quin could care for me. His manner was 
always very polite and gentlemanly, but never 
until very lately at all that of a lover. He said 
to-night, though, that he had loved me always, 
and that, even while he was engaged to Nettie, 
there was deep down in his heart, — though, of 
course, he was not conscious of it at the time, — 
the feeling that I was his choice after all. But 
there was such a strange expression iu his eye 
this evening when I promised him to bo his wife; 
such a defiant, triumphant look, it almost 1 light¬ 
ened me, and I asked him what it meant—what 
made him look so. But he said no wonder he 
looked triumphant—well he might when Ilia life¬ 
long desiro had just been granted, and then,- 
then,-i 
ELIZABETH’S NAME. 
When I was a little girl, I did not like my 
name — Elizabeth! It seemed so old and digni¬ 
fied, so unsuited to a child, while the pet name 
“Libbie,” which my brothers called me, I thought 
very homely — uot at all so sweet and loving as 
tho names of my playmates. 
Not one of the little girls whom I know had so 
old-fashioned a name as mine. There were 
Clara, Helen, Julia, Grace, Agnes, Edith, Flor¬ 
ence, Isabel and Ilosabello. The last name I 
thought prettiest of them all, perhaps because it 
belonged to u darling little girl. 
One day she said to me, “ Do you know why I 
like my own name better than any of the others?” 
“ No,” I replied, “ why do you?” 
“ Because it has such a sweet meaning. Belle 
moans beautiful, Rosabello, beautiful Rose.” 
Then the little girl blushed and smiled, and 
held down her head, while I kissed her red 
cheek. 
“ You ought to havo a name with a pretty 
meaning," l said; “I wonder if mine moans some¬ 
thing as plain and dull as I am?” 
“ Why don’t you look iu the Bible,” she said, 
“ your name is there 1” 
“ 1 will look this very day 1” And when I re¬ 
turned home 1 did look and found—“Elizabeth, 
the oath of God." What could that mean, I won¬ 
dered? something very awful, I was sure; and I 
cried to think my parents had given me such a 
dreadful name. 
When father came home that night, I took the 
Bible to him and told him all my difficulty. 
“ The oath of God,” ho exclaimed must mean 
perfect, truth. Since God himself is tho truth, 
everything ho says is tho truth, his oath must be 
oh, it is very sweet to feel that you are 
nearest and best to some one’s heart. No one 
thinks very much of me in my own family. Both 
father and amity lovu me, of course, but not with 
that absorbing love that, takes one right into 
another’s heart and guards them carefully as 
themselves. Ob, God has been very good to 
me, very; my cup of happiness is very full. 
November 26th.— I have been all over town 
with aunty this afternoon, who has gone quite 
wild ou the subject of my “trousseau.” I am 
very tired and can scarcely move my pen across 
the paper. I am to be married tbe latter paid of 
next month. It is much sooner than J would 
like, but Quin urges it with a vehemence that I 
| can neither withstand nor understand. Mrs. 
or cares for inc? God? Oh, yes, God loves 
me, and cares for me; if lie would only take 
me to Himself! no is time, He will not break 
Ilia promises. But, oh, He is not here, lie is in 
Heaven,and I cannot see Him, cannot hear Him! 
1 have crept from my bed with blinded eyes and 
dizzy head, to try and think it all over, to write it 
— sometimes by their corners, sometimes by 
their extremes. 
The excavation of the sewer of Paris has been 
no small work. Tho last ten centuries have 
labored upon it, without being able to complete 
it any more than to finish Paris. The sower, 
indeed, receives all the impulsions of tho growth 
of Paris. It is, in the earth, a species of dark 
polyp with a thousand antennao, which grows 
beneath at the same time that til© city grows 
above. The old monarchy had constructed only 
twenty-live thousand four hundred and eighty 
yards of sewers; Paris was at that point on the 
first of January, 1806. From that epoch, of 
which we will speak directly, the work was prof¬ 
itably and energetically resumed and continued; 
Napoleon built (the figures am interesting,) live 
thousand two hundred and fifty-four yards; 
Louis XVIII., six thousand two hundred and 
forty-four; Charles X., eleven thousand eight 
hundred and fifty-one; Louis Philippe, ninety- 
seven thousand three hundred and fifty live; the 
down and see what it all means; and 1 thought 
hint so noble, so good! Oh, God, how can J 
ever bear it? 
It, was Monday evening it happened-let me 
think. He had come in, but he was late, and he 
staggered; his breath smelt of brandy. I did 
not say a word. God knows l have tried to be a 
loving, good wife to him — that I have tried uot 
to anger him—that I’ve studied to please him in 
every possible way. God knows I have! But 
the next morning 1 spoke. Oh, what did I say? 
Why can’t I think? What made him so angry 
with mo? Did I tly into a passion, apeak harshly 
and unjustly? No, no, I 1. now I did not. How 
lo my bus) and? But he turned 
I was comforted. Wlmt a beautiful moaning 
for a name! I would not exchange it for the 
most romantic name in the world. I only feared 
that 1 had no right to it—perfect truth. 
“ But 1 will earn a right 1” thought L “ If my 
name meant anything beautiful, that 1 could uot 
bo; hut 1 can be true and I will! With God’s 
help, I will be true from this hour 1” 
1 was then ten years old. I began in earnest 
I watched myself, and morning and evening, and 
often through the day, when tempted, 1 prayed 
that God would help me to be truthful. I did 
uot once speak about it to any one, but when I 
was sixteen I was amply repaid for my efforts by 
hearing my mother say oue evening to a highly 
esteemed friend that “ Eliza both was the only 
one of her children who had never told a lie.” 
You may imagine, dear children, how happy I 
was. I had earned my beautiful name—Perfect 
Truth. 
could 1 to him 
upon me. 1 know what lie said. Every word Is 
burned upon my brain. I can never forget it 
Cruel words they were,—bow could he utter 
them? 
“Lute,” ho cried, “hold your tongue. Keep 
your devilish gab to yourself. I am a man and 
won’t stand it!” 
“Oh, Quin, Quin!” J said. “For love of me”— 
“Love of you!” 
Oh! it freezes me to remember his tone, his 
cruel, sneering tone. 
“Love of you? Good heavens, Lute, are 
you not undeceived yet? You precious dupe, 
do you think that I love you? Do you think 1 
married you for love? I married you for hale, 
girl—not for love, I tell you. I married you 
because I vowed to bring wretchedness upon 
your lofty sister and all that belonged to her,— 
TWAS MY MOTHER’S 
A company of poor children, who had been 
gathered out of the alleys and garrets of the 
city, wore preparing for their departure to new 
and distant homes in the West. Just before the 
time for tho start! ug’of the cars, one of the boys 
was noticed aside from the others, and appa¬ 
rently very busy with a cast-off garment 
The Superintendent stepped up to him, and 
found ho was cutting a small piece out of the 
patched lining. It proved to be his old jacket, 
THE PYRAMIDS 
which, having been replaced by a new one, had 
been thrown away. There was no time to be 
lost. “Come, John, cornel” said the Superin¬ 
tendent,; “what are you going to do with that 
old piece of calico?” 
“Please, sir,” said John, “ I am cutting it out 
to take with me. My dear, dear mother put this 
lining into my jacket for me. This was a piece 
of her dress, ami it is all that 1 have to remember 
her by.” 
And as the dear boy thought of that mother’s 
love, and the sad death-bed scene in the old 
garret where she died, he covered his face with 
his hands, and sobbed as if his heart would 
break. 
But the train was about leaving, and John 
thrust the little piece of calico into his bosom, 
“ to remember his mother,” hurried into a car, 
and was soon far away from the place where he 
had seen so much sorrow. 
Many an eye moistened as the story ol this 
orphan hoy had been told; arid many a heart 
has prayed that the God of the fatherless and 
motherless would bo his friend. He loved his 
asked him not to go to-night too. But he turned 
almost fiercely upon me, and with the awful 
expression of that morning on his face, exclaimed, 
“Be quiet, Lute. Am I to be governed and 
controlled by you — you? Good heavens, child, 
who are you?” and I, cowering back, shrank 
away like some whipped animal. Ho did not 
bid me good-bye either. He went up to his 
mother’s room; 1 heard him tell her he had an 
engagement, and should not he back till late, but 
he never Baid a word lo me,—his wife. Does he 
not love me any more— me, his Lktie? God 
help me; have I lost his love so soon? I have 
only been married six weeks, a little over a 
month. But Quin does love me. How can 1 be 
so foolish and wicked as to doubt him? 1 have 
been writing what never should have crossed 
my mind. My husband not care for me? Of 
course, he does, he doest I wish he would not 
did get far enough along to read that much from 
Xenophon, but tho rest is still all Greek to me. 
Thence we marched two days' march so many 
parasangs, (don’t it sound learned,) to Lennox in 
among the Berkshire Hills, a perfect paradise of 
a place, whence we staid some two or three weeks, 
and tbe rest of the time we have been at Sara¬ 
toga. Harold and Juliet have been here, too, 
but left yesterday. Harold has apparently 
quite recovered from any effect my answer to 
the question might have produced upon him. 
He is not engaged yet, however, so Juliet says. 
I w onder why. Quin and his mother have been 
here for about three weeks. Mrs. S-E seems 
a great deal better. I have been riding several 
times with Quin and danced, of course, with him 
a great many times, but beyond that have seen 
very little of him. He has devoted himself 
almost exclusively to his mother. Quin is a 
person who, when he loves, loves almost to dis¬ 
traction, but when he bates, hates, 1 should j crazy, shall die and then I shall be happy, 
judge, with most bitter malignity. He gave I There is no rest on earth for me; who loves me, 
THE SEWER OF PARIS, 
Imagine Paris, taken off like a cover; a birds- 
eye view of the subterranean net-work of the 
sewer will represent, upon either bunk, a sort of 
huge branch engrafted on the river. Upon the 
right bank, the belt sewer will be the trunk of 
this branch, the secondary conduits will be the 
limbs, and the primary drains will be the twigs. 
This figure is only general, and half exact; the 
right angle, which is the ordinary angle of this 
kind of under-ground ramification, being very 
rare in vegetation. We shall form an image 
more closely resembling this strange geometric 
plan by supposing that wc see spread out upon a 
background of darkness, some grotesque alpha¬ 
bet of the East, jumbled as In a medley, the 
shapeless letters of which are joined to each 
You see men of the most delicute frames en* 
gaged in active professional pursuits, who liter¬ 
ally have no tune for illness. Let them become 
idle—let them take care of themselves—let them 
think of their health—and they die! The rust 
rota the steel which use preserves. 
Always back your friends, and face your 
enemies. 
