The Swash, and the shipment of gunpowder, were thought of no more in the good town of Manhattan. This great emporium--we beg pardon, this great _commercial_ emporium--has a trick of forgetting; condensing all interests into those of the present moment. It is much addicted to believing that which never had an existence, and of overlooking that which is occurring directly _under its nose_. So marked is this tendency to forgetfulness, we should not be surprised to hear some of the Manhattanese pretend that our legend is nothing but a fiction, and deny the existence of the Molly, Capt. Spike, and even of Biddy Noon. But we know them too well to mind what they say, and shall go on and finish our narrative in our own way, just as if there were no such raven-throated commentators at all. Jack Tier, still known by that name, lives in the family of Capt. Mulford. She is fast losing the tan on her face and hands, and every day is improving in appearance. She now habitually wears her proper attire, and is dropping gradually into the feelings and habits of her sex. She never can become what she once was, any more than the blackamoor can become white, or the leopard change his spots; but she is no longer revolting. She has left off chewing and smoking, having found a refuge in snuff. Her hair is permitted to grow, and is already turned up with a comb, though constantly concealed beneath a cap. The heart of Jack, alone, seems unaltered. The strange, tiger-like affection that she bore for Spike, during twenty years of abandonment, has disappeared in regrets for his end. It is succeeded by a most sincere attachment for Rose, in which the little boy, since his appearance on the scene, is becoming a large participator. This child Jack is beginning to love intensely; and the doubloons, well invested, placing her above the feeling of dependence, she is likely to end her life, once so errant and disturbed, in tranquillity and a home-like happiness. THE BELLE. BY MARY L. LAWSON. She stands before the mirror--she is fair, And soft the light within her beaming eyes, But unshed tears are slowly gathering there, Like passing clouds that float o'er summer skies; Her cheek is wan, as blanched by thoughts of pain, And on her snowy brow a shadow sleeps: Are such surpassing gifts bestowed in vain?-- The pale, sad beauty turns aside and weeps! Long, long in anguish flows the burning tide-- Dark storms of feeling sweep across her breast-- In loneliness there needs no mask of pride-- To nerve the soul, and veil the heart's unrest, Amid the crowd her glances brightly beam, Her smiles with undimmed lustre sweetly shine: The haunting visions of life's fevered dream The cold and careless seek not to divine.