Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by Carey, Lea & Blanchard , in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania....

A lady distinguished as a writer and an artist; and esteemed by her friends for her domestic virtues. With her accomplishments, and excellence of character, she would be appreciated any where; but it has been her peculiar good fortune to belong to Boston; a place, above all others, wherein a woman receives that high respect and consideration to which she is so justly entitled....

A few years ago a book was published, called “Our Neighbourhood;” and those who read it, will recollect that the author intended, in the second series, to give a short sketch of some of the most conspicuous characters therein mentioned. The second series is now presented to the public, and is called “Camperdown,” the name of our neighbourhood. The work will be continued, under different titles, until the author has accomplished the object stated in the preface to the first series; and which the

It is seldom that men begin to muse and sit alone in the twilight until they arrive at the age of fifty, for until that period the cares of the world and the education of their young children engross all their thoughts. Edgar Hastings, our hero, at thirty years of age was still unmarried, but he had gone through a vast deal of excitement, and the age of musing had been anticipated by twenty years. He was left an orphan at fourteen, with a large income, and the gentleman who had the management of

Hearing a noise, he suddenly started up. It was dusk, and having lain long in one position, he felt so stiff as to move with difficulty; on turning his head, he saw two strangers looking at him with wonder and pity. “Is the steamboat ready?” exclaimed he, still confused with his long sleep. “Has the bell rung, gentlemen? Bless me, I have overslept myself—what o’clock is it? Why, it is almost dark—I am ashamed of myself.” Finding, after one or two attempts, that he could not get up easily, the tw

Nothing injures a man’s prospects in life more than a bad name. My father, an honest, good man, never could rise above it, it depressed him to his dying day. His name was Pan, and no one ever spoke to him without some small joke, a thing which my father’s sensitiveness could not bear. He was a gardener and sent the finest of vegetables to market, striving to excel all others—I presume that my taste for horticulture arose from this circumstance. Adjoining our garden was one that belonged to a man

“Jemmy, come here—come quick, will ye,” said a poor, dirty, good-natured looking fellow, to a man as ragged and poor as himself—“step faster, will ye, and help me to raise this wagon.” They lifted up the overturned light carriage and dragged out of the mud—first, a trunk and carpet bag, then a gun case, and lastly the owner of all this, a middle aged man, apparently, who had been stunned by the fall, although in so soft a spot. He recovered his senses, however, as soon as the men raised him from

“I wish my dear Hassy,” said Mrs. Webb to her husband, “I do really wish that we had a house of our own; I dislike to live at lodgings, it leaves me so little to do. When my baby is dressed and your bureau is put in order, I have nothing to do but to sew, no exercise at all; and as to you, you read, read until you lose your colour and health. Now, if we had a house to ourselves, you would have exercise enough in going to market—(Heavens, Mr. Webb go to market!!)—and in one little odd notion or o

“Mrs. Bangs, look here,” said the cook, “look at this queer thing in the turkey’s craw; it looks for all the world like a brickbat.” “O never mind the brickbat,” said Mrs. Bangs, “let that alone; ‘tis no concern of ours—only make haste and prepare the turkey for the spit. Your head is always running after things that don’t concern you.” Thus spoke Mrs. Bangs, the mother of thirteen children, all girls. She was a strong, healthy woman of fifty years of age, and in the three characters of daughter

Martin Barton, a respectable, well looking lad, entered Mr. Daly’s thread and needle store at the age of fourteen. He was a faultless and enduring creature, always at his post, and serving out his appointed time—seven years—without giving his master the least cause of complaint. The morning of his birthday was his day of freedom, and although Mr. Daly knew that this day must come some time or other, yet he was quite unprepared for it. Great, therefore, would have been his sorrow, if Martin Barto