ng a cart, and having seen every thing packed
up and on their way to his house, he proceeded to his own store, chuckling
within himself that _now_ at least he had made a bargain at which even his
wife couldn't grumble. In due time he was seated at the dinner-table, when
lifting his eyes, he observed a cloud upon his wife's brow. 'Well, my
dear?' said he, inquiringly. 'Well?' repeated his wife; 'it is _not_ well,
Mr. W.; I am vexed beyond endurance. You know C----, the auctioneer?'
'Certainly,' replied the Colonel; 'and a very gentlemanly person he is
_too_.' '_You_ may think so,' rejoined the wife, 'but I _don't_, and I'll
tell you why. A few days ago I gathered together all the trumpery with
which you have been cluttering up the house for the last twelve-month, and
sent it to Mr. C----, with orders to sell the lot immediately to the
highest bidder for cash. He assured me he would do so in all this week, at
farthest, and pay over the proceeds to my order. And here I've been
congratulating myself on two things: first, on having got rid of a most
intolerable nuisance; and secondly, on receiving money enough therefor to
purchase that new velvet hat you promised me so long ago. And now what do
you think? This morning, about an hour ago, _the whole load came back
again, without a word of explanation_!' The Colonel looked blank for a
moment, and then proceeded to clear up the mystery. But the good VROUW was
pacified only by the promise of a ten-dollar note beside that in the hands
of the auctioneer; on condition, however, that she should never mention
it.' Of course she kept her word! . . . HOW seldom it is that one
encounters a good sonnet! Most sonnetteers of our day are like
feeble-framed men walking in heavy armor; 'the massy weight on't galls
their laden limbs.' We remember two or three charming sonnets of
LONGFELLOW'S; PARK BENJAMIN has been unwontedly felicitous in some of his
examples; and H. T. TUCKERMAN has excelled in the same poetical role. Here
is a late specimen of his, from the 'Democratic Review,' which we regard
as very beautiful:

DESOLATION.

THINK ye the desolate must live apart,
By solemn vows to convent walls confined?
Ah! no; with men may dwell the cloistered heart,
And in a crowd the isolated mind:
Tearless behind the prison-bars of fate
The world sees not how sorrowful they stand,
Gazing so fondly through the iron grate
Upon the promised, yet forbidden land;
Patience, t