RANDOM PASSAGES.

FROM TRE PRIVATE JOURNAL AND CORRESPONDENCE OF THE LATE MRS. SOPHIE MANNING PHILLIPS.

NUMBER THREE.

*PAILADELPHIA, February 13.- I've got the blues,' or something! My pulse keeps not time, this day, to wonted measures. Icicles hang dejectedly over the top of my dirty window, unwelcome to all but my baby, who 'lifts her hands, and eyes, and heart, and craves of them a gift.' The wind is playing a wintry dirge around my ears, and great snow-banks are rising, in fierce reality, against my meekeyed phantasms of returning to West-Point. Sweet sound! blest spot! Have my senses, of a surety, drank in thy peerless beauty, day by day? Have thy grassy paths been soft under my feet ? Have I yielded up my heart along thy river's bank, or at thy mountains' base, with all it knew of fulness and of praise ? It is no dream I carry forever pictured in my bosom, of golden sunsets gliding to the waters; of far hills breathing out against the sky, in silent, silent greenness; of twilight's cool and fragrant-closing wing; of eve's first star, coming to sit in love, till morn, amidst the quiet heaven. Oh, balmy summer nights, wearing too much of fairy for long life, with what a hushed and eager breath have I stood listening to the music of that band ! - now swelling in full, delicious harmony, till all the dewy air seemed floating o'er; now caught and loitering in bewitching play upon the voice of echo. White in my eyes, this night, crossed by the shadow of its trees in the moonlight, shines my happy cottage-front! Again I am there, at the window, by the door; the near-stirring leaves, the whippoorwill's note from the bank, are in my ear. I feel it to be beautiful, oh, beautiful! those grassy haunts, fit cradles for a soul's first holy thought, those mountainthrones, the perfect work of God! Amidst the world's known, and by some considered overbalancing, deceits, snares, mockeries, and wo, it would seem unavailing to follow the earthly walk of our chosen and remembered ones, with the spirit's pressing measure of fervent yet futile wishes. Why cry we peace to the bosoms whose hapless clay shuts out diviner ministrations ? Yet there are some wandering sieurs, whom late I knew in all kindness, welcomed to my doors in all honesty, whereon my'sweet charities' do fall like dew. Wheresoever ye stray, brave hearts ! my fair memory goes with you; not for a week, a month, but warmly, while the sun shines over you

and me.

*14TH. — Fat Mr. C., our arch gourmand, is sick of a sore throat. Paid him a visit this afternoon, advancing on tip-toe, and throwing, all the sympathy I could command, into my benevolent inquiry of • How do you find yourself, now, Mr. C.? Lifting toward me, from under a dotted silk head-kerchief, two most lamenting eyes, he replied, with dolorous impressiveness, 'I have n't eaten anything since Wednesday !

Snow, snow, snow! not descending fitfully and coquettishly, as if trifling with sunshine, (winter's though it were !) but falling on the devoted earth in an unfailing, downright manner, wavering neither right nor left, till my soul grows shivering and sick within me, and I feel as if never more to be united with the objects of my mortal love and yearning. Distance seems twice distanced; spring-time and its hopes, but a dear and envied mockery; sweet-burthened summer, a passing, joyous queen, whose ‘lap of flowers' is not for us to share ! What do I here, with never a dear voice to answer when I speak, and never a spirit flowing forth to meet my own, the weary or the glad! Poor life, dim days, which yet I cannot spare from that allotment, written they say in heaven, against one's birth. Wish the people down stairs were n't so absolutely beyond all Christian encouragement. Sweet Grace! how serene she appeared at dinner, in her starched black silk gown, dead-crimson scarf, lace mittens, and hair à la porcupine. Invited, to-night, to the theatre, to see · La Somnambula,' but never could do any thing exeept cry, when it snows; ergo, shant attend theatre. Snow's my bugbear. As for 'sleighing,' I consider it the most savage proposition that can be made by one çivilized member of society to another. Used always, in snow season, to plunge home from school, with my head hanging down on my breast, my mouth shut tight together, and a melancholy at my heart, said to distinguish the first stage of hydrophobia. I wonder if, at this minute, my image is with the memory of any one whom I love? Who thinks of me this hour, in blessed kindness? Upon whose lips liveth my unworthy name ? What heart, divided from my side, should quicken with pleasure to be near me again ? Pray heaven I live to be once more surrounded with spirits whose presence is a welcome, whose blessed influence is felt, in every flying moment !

“Saw a horse flourishing past the window to-day, whose bold and showy canterings were prematurely spoiled by his violently knocking one hoof against another. The hurt leg suddenly thrust out from the rest, and several awkward limps thereafter, gave evident token of agony. Remembering late contacts of my own ankles with the great long rockers of a certain chair, up stairs, I held my breath in sympathy with the poor brute, as long as I could see him, then followed him yet on, to the sanctuary of the manger, annoyed by the conviction, that a horse can never know the consolation of rubbing himself when he is hurt.'

a

We have already spoken of the minute observation of character and events, and the pleasant vivacity, that so frequently characterize the 'passages' which form the matériel of these papers. Few, who knew the writer, can peruse them, without calling up before them, her arch eye and speaking face, the gems of wit which seemed to sparkle from her lips, and the rich music of her joyous, infectious laugh. If her gayety was sometimes assumed, when, as will have been seen, her heart was pining in loveliness, or for an interchange of that human sympathy, with which it was overflowing, it is but an evidence of that accommodating sweetness of disposition, for which she was remarkable. The following poetical, epistolary mosaic, addressed to a distinguished military professor and author, at West,

Point, will afford an added proof of the great versatility of the writer's style:

Philadelphia, Evening, March 30th, 1836.

VOL. XII.

Fair Sir, it is to write to you, I'm sitting in my chair;

My work'd French cape is on my neck, my band is round my hair;
For if the bell should ring, and John should usher in a beau,

And bring his card to Mrs. P, she must go down, you know!

Not that beaux leave so frequently a friend or a cigar,

To seek a widow's company, beneath the evening star;
But now and then some passer calls, to quote the latest prints,

And sure, the effect one then must have, depends upon one's chintz!

And here I beg the privilege, in words both plain and brief,
To mention something which to me would be a great relief;
It is to make my bundles up, and so go out of town,
Where I could take the liberty to wear a faded gown.

For hair that's à la Grecian knot, and waists made à la Turk,
Do vastly well on gala days, or the day not made for work;
But frills and edgings, silk and lace, stand only sorry chance,
Where fond mamma is teaching her first baby for to dance!

Well, I've little to tell you, do all that I can,
Of aught new or funny here, Mr. MA-N;
I'm in a high chamber that's back o' the house,

Where I shiun the world's trappings, and live like a mouse.

Dame Sr, thou knowest, is outwardly slim,
But her brain is a sound one, and fill'd to the brim;

And she lying sick a-bed, round us likewise,

At 'sixes and sevens,' as they say, every thing lies!

The cook drops her chickens, and threatens vacation,

The people can't stay where there's chance of starvation;
The porter and waiters, not having a head,'
Swear as to live so, they as lief would be dead!

Confusion confounded through every room

Rides o'er us all day, like a witch on a broom;
But I trust before long this unhappy hodge-podge

Will be turn'd to plain pudding, by learn'd Dr. Hodge:

Who comes every morning with lancet and pill,
With 'one pound of powder, to water one gill,'
And all sorts of mixtures, in measure discreet,
To set our poor hostess again on her feet.

Though early the season, and colder than ice,
By travellers our rooms will be filled in a trice;
My long-slumbering eyes expectation are proving,
To judge by the trunks, there's a caravan moving!

I think I'll go down, in the hope to procure
Some food for my letter, that's starved, to be sure!
New faces, new faces! 't is aye my delight
To peel off their 'varnish,' for wrong or for right.

Au revoir. Two young women, a tall and a short one,
The short, an intelligent, or sure would be thought one;
There's nobody t ld me her strokes had been felt,
But she has a gold pencil tuck'd under her belt!

The other speaks soft, parts her hair on one side,

Her breath comes in sighs, and her walk is a glide,
As if she were hinting, In heaven and earth
There's more than you dream of,' who sit by the hearth.

Escort of the maids, if he be not their sire,
A monstrous fat gentleman looks in the fire;
And bold in his name, to the winds here I tos8
The axiom that 'fat people never are cross!'

Adieu! there's valises and people in plenty,
To fill, not one sheet overflowing, but twenty;
But late is the season, my eyes give me warning
To blow out my candle, and slumber till morning.

Present me all round, in the liveliest affection,
To your every friend and your every connexion;
Will you tell Mr. I've enough love for two men,
Sent here from his house, by a parcel of women.

Of our halcyon spring-weather, I only can say,
It hailed and snowed yesterday, rained some to-day;
At present the moon would shine, but for her sorrow,
To see a great storm getting up for to-morrow!

' 15TH. — The walls of our house, ici, chez Mad. S― are apparently about two inches thick, which I think must account for the continuity of colds I've enjoyed for the last five months- nasal, catarrhal, ossivorous, respiratory, and compounded. Wonder I'm alive to speak it, for a more unhealthy edifice than this I have the pleasure to inhabit, 'rears not its brazen front' in the world. From November to January, I wore the 'sober livery' of the intermittentfever family. Thanks to Providence and Dr. P —, at this present writing, I've a 'clean tongue,' which all have not; my veins are filling with the flood of life; sleep waiteth on mine eyes at night, I wait upon hot cakes and butter in the morning. Phials, not of wrath but of vitriol and sweet nitre, are gone from my shelf over the fireplace; people have done sending me custards and quince jellies; and I begin to think about a spring-bonnet, having given away a late purchase of the sort, thinking I should n't live to want it. What would become of us, without Hope, the bright, the fond, the unwearying? Hope, whom we call 'phantom' and cruel,' that sits laughing amidst her garden, crowned 'empress of its flowers, holding aloft their blossoms in the sun, that we may see how fair! It seemeth as a dream, my long, long sickness among strangers; dismal and hard

enough, at the time, to bear; but assuredly, lie where we will in weakness, we rejoice in health. There day telleth unto day, and night unto night, with an equal pace; and so when we sit us down at length, to think thereon, it matters nothing. Mortality clings to its ties, and setteth up ever, away from the shade, its coveted idols of riches, or pleasures, or length of days. But with the chill of disappointment, cometh perhaps a colder heart to feel it, and to bear.'

'SAW a man this morning in a musty brown coat, old slouched hat, and crooked boots, yet seemed he more lovely in my eyes than the daintiest lounger in Chestnut-street, for after him trailed a ladder, and in his hands was a pair of pruning shears, wherewith, stopping under a tree in the public walk, he began nipping away the unseemly and dead branches, preparing, blessed be heaven! for the gales, and buds, and birds of spring!' 'Miss Murphy, my baby's white nurse, recounting her last night's dream to me, about the Indians, with all the gesture and fervor peculiar to Erin's speakers, thus concluded her inauspicious vision: And at last, ma'am, a big Indian that wanted me to marry him, stud over me with a knife, and siz he, (myself a-screeching and begging,) now profess black, or die!'

Long walk this morning. Met divers city belles, with cherrycolored cheeks and noses, and black muffs, all hastening on their momentous commissions of ribbon-buying, or returning calls. Remember nothing else of note, except some boys and dogs fighting in front of a large edifice called 'Harmony-Hall! No snow to-day, beyond what has lain on the ground since Christmas. Sun, cheery and warming; air, soft and promising; felt its influence, for the first time in many a long week, 'go (as they say) to the right place.' Exercise opened my pores, and benevolence my bosom. Miss L to my sweetened fancies. limbered down from an iron poker to a wooden broom-stick; our students ascended from the scale of pigs to the grade of monkeys. Forgave Mary her neglect, and bought a little tin-kettle for mon petite Miss P Then was the time for How strange

a chimney-sweep to have asked me for a penny! it does seem to me, that any thing with breath in its nostrils, like mine, a heart, and head, and hair, and otherwise resembling the human frame divine, should be content to live behind a small counter in Watertonstreet, and sell molasses candy! Bought some there, by this token, of a woman, to-day.

'Some one decrying the weather, 'I'm always in good spirits!' shrieked Miss L—, looking round on the company in a sunny way, and backing her assertion by an elaborate grin. And to show what good spirits she's in, Miss L flies screaming to the window, at the sound of every mob and sleigh-bell, goes bouncing every now and then through the entries, with the noise of a fire-engine, warbling, at the top of her choral strains, Begone, dull Care,' or 'Behold, how brightly breaks the Morning,' slams all the doors, and walks out every day in the snow, before breakfast. Short powwow,' which I heard to-day between Mille and Doctor Hwho is reported to be suffering Cupid in that quarter.