'Cheer up, my lively lads, In spite of wind and weather, Cheer up, my lively lads, And----' The 'Spasm' shot over the waves with the speed of light; the shores faded in the distance; our ancient adversary the Devil was lost in his pictured proportions; and with a light heart we bade farewell to Scollop-Island, and to the hospitalities of the DEVIL-TAVERN. AN EPITAPH. ALL that could suffer change and fade Of one 't were sin to weep, Deep in this narrow bed is laid In everlasting sleep. The grassy turf was never spread Above a gentler breast; O! bitter, bitter tears were shed, When she was laid to rest. Her praise might partial friendship swell With not unseemly pride; But this were vain--enough to tell, She lived, and loved, and died. JAMES ALDRICH. _New-York, June, 1843_ JUNE. BY HANS VON SPIEGEL. SWEET June, the loveliest child of all the year! With quickened life I hail thy slow return, And feel my torpid soul within me burn, As on the hill-side's verdant slope appear The well-known flowers that mark thy presence near. And not alone am I in loving thee! For Nature dons her richest livery When thou appearest; with a softer blue The sky pavilions earth; the forest's hue Is fresher; and the brooks more merrily Gurgle their slender, changeful melody. Were there a world where thou didst ever reign, And I, _alone_, could reach it. I would fain Dwell there for aye; nor sigh for earth again! _June, 1843_ CÀ ET LÀ. BY THE FLÂNEUR. IT is the beginning, the _premier pas qui coute_, in all compositions. Once started, there is no difficulty in proceeding; but how to begin! Shall we borrow of the prolific JAMES? 'UPON a lovely morning in November, that season of the year when the woods have doffed their summer green to robe themselves in sombre russet, two horsemen were seen riding down a glade of one of those noble old forests which are still to be met with in some parts of England. The elder of the two, a fine, soldier-like figure, sat his horse,' etc., etc. And there we will leave him, and look out for our own beginning. Strange that a chapter on this subject is nowhere to be found in any book on rhetoric or criticism. For our part we are determined not to begin at all for the present, but to propound a number of queries suggested to us by the name of the exuberant novelist above mentioned. First, then: Why are tears always called 'pearly drops?' Would not that definition apply better to drops of milk? Lands have been said to flow with milk, but never did the wildest romancer assert that the lachrymal duct in the human subject was a milky-way.