[Illustration: signature of Ann S Stephens] Mrs. Ann S. Stephens was at one period the editor of the “Portland Magazine,” a periodical of which we have not heard for some time, and which, we presume, has been discontinued. More lately her name has been placed upon the title page of “The Lady’s Companion” of New York, as one of the conductors of that journal—to which she has contributed many articles of merit and popularity. She has also written much and well, for various other periodicals, and will, hereafter, enrich this magazine with her compositions, and act as one of its editors. Her MS. is a very excellent one, and differs from that of her sex in general, by an air of more than usual force and freedom. * * * * * THE SWEET SOUTH WIND. BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON. Hark, ’tis the sweet south wind! How soft its dewy fingers touch the keys Which thrill such melting music through the mind, Even the green leaves of the forest trees. There is a witchery In the soft music, like the voice of love; Now gushing o’er the soul deliciously, Then sighing a rich cadence through the grove. It seemeth to mine ear The rustling of some holy creature’s wing, Sent from some passionless and sinless sphere, Unction of peace unto the soul to bring. My temples feel its pow’r, Cooling and soothing every throbbing vein; My spirit lifts its weary wings once more, And bursts the strong clasps of care’s sordid chain, And floats all calm and free, Blent with the music of the bending wood, Fill’d with the light of immortality, Even the presence of the Living God. Nature is full of Him, And every willing spirit feels his pow’r; Even as this south wind fills the forest dim, And bends with its rich weight each lowly flow’r. Oh, may death come to me On the soft breath of such a night as this; To lift the thin veil of mortality, And let me bathe at once in perfect bliss. * * * * * MISFORTUNES OF A TIMID GENTLEMAN. BY J. ROSS BROWNE. [Continued from Page 123.[2]] Book II. Being now somewhat advanced in life, I can look back on the past with that degree of calmness and self-complacency so delightful to age. I cannot think, with Miss Landon, that a person regards the follies of his youth with more severity himself than others regard them. Indeed I feel disposed to believe that those very follies form the chief charm of our early days; and, as for myself, I can hardly regret that I was not born a Nestor. So much by way of preface to my Second Book.