early cracked the drum of my ears.

When at Amsterdam, I was nearly carried off to Archangel, which would, at
the time, have been rather a bore indeed. After a grand let-off, given by
a rich burgo-master, to which my friends got me a special invitation, I
incautiously exceeded in the curacoa, of which I did not at all then know
the strength. The vessel put to sea, and I had enough to do to secure
my retreat in the pilot boat. From Amsterdam we proceeded in a curious,
large diligence to Utrecht, and from that to Cologne. We had twelve
(human) passengers inside, who smoked the whole time without intermission.
I, as well as all my species, are most partial to perfumes, and I did not
therefore fail to visit the representative of Signior Jean Marie Farina
in his shop, No. 4568, a la rue haute a Cologne. Nothing struck me
particularly in this town of Cologne. The streets are very narrow, and
seemed dull enough. To be sure, the principal one, which is said to be a
German league in length, is rather fine. The old convent of the Ladies of
St. Ursula, is curious at least. They show you in it the bones of 11,000
virgins, who they say were murdered by the Huns at the time of their
invasion, when they destroyed the town. I might easily have had a taste
of them; but I had no fancy for such antiquated old maids. In the
Cathedral, or Dom, as they call it, you see the tomb of the three famous
kings of Cologne, and the gold and silver chests which contain the bones
of the Holy Engelberth. I don't think, in the whole town, there is any
thing else worth the trouble of looking at. The hotel "Le Prince Charles,"
I found tolerably comfortable: there is a good French cook, but he is
a saucy fellow.

(_To be concluded in our next_.)

* * * * *

THE SELECTOR;
AND
LITERARY NOTICES OF
_NEW WORKS_.

* * * * *

A MOTHER'S LOVE

Oh, beauteous were my baby's dark blue eyes,
Evermore turning to his mother's face,
So dove-like soft, yet bright as summer skies;
And pure his cheek as roses, ere the trace
Of earthly blight or stain their tints disgrace.
O'er my loved child enraptured still I hung;
No joy in life could those sweet hours replace,
When by his cradle low I watched and sung--
While still in memory's ear his father's promise rung.

Long, long I wept with weak and piteous cry
O'er my sweet infant, in its rosy bloom,
As memory brought my