In his wild bivouac, With his cup and his sack, His sweetheart remember’d with heart, and with soul; To beauty a fill, And a cheer with a will, While each comrade to friendship is passing the bowl. With his nodding plume, and his manners so free, A soldier—a soldier’s the lad for me. Philadelphia, December 20, 1840. * * * * * THE BLIND GIRL. BY MRS. C. DURANG. “Can nothing induce you to give up the idea of going to the ball to-night, my dear Maria?” said the anxious Mr. Worthington, “our dear little one seems quite unwell, and surely the loss, or rather the exchange of one pleasure for another, can not be so distressing, particularly when the one is of so evanescent a nature as a rout.” “What good could I possibly do the infant?” was the reply to this kind expostulation of her doting husband; “you know Sarah is quite accustomed to her, and really I think it ridiculous that you should wish me to stay home; but lately you seem to rack your brains to contrive what means you can devise to thwart my wishes: if I ask for anything that will cost the slightest extra expense, the reply is: ‘we can’t afford it.’ Pray how do other people afford to live in more style than we do, with less income than ours?” “Unfortunately, they _cannot_ afford it,” said Mr. Worthington; “and we see the consequences daily. Many of the enormous failures that have lately occurred, might have been prevented, but for the spirit of rivalry that fashion has instilled into the families of many of our merchants and citizens.” “So,” said Mrs. Worthington, “because people fail, I am to be deprived of everything I wish for, and kept at home to see whether the child is _going_ to be sick. I am sure I have taken every precaution to prevent its crying after me, for I have carefully covered its eyes every time I have nursed it since its birth. Nay, I do not let it come into the room where I am without something thrown over its face, that it may not know me; so that if I was to remain home to watch it, it would neither be better nor wiser; nay, it might frighten her to see a strange face.” Mr. Worthington paused for some time, confounded by his wife’s unnatural exultation, and want of affection for her infant, at last he exclaimed, with considerable sharpness,—“_Have you a heart?_” “I _once_ did, and _do still_, possess such an article, notwithstanding I presume you consider yourself the proprietor.” “It must be small indeed,” said Mr. Worthington with a sigh. “Large enough for it to admit the whole circle of my friends,” added the lady. “I fear it will soon be untenanted, then,” uttered Mr. Worthington as he left the room, finding it was impossible to dissuade her from her purpose, and discovering, too late, the misery of being united to one whose education had unfitted her for a wife.