duly installed as his second mate. She even intermitted for a while her favorite repast, the crunching of sugar-candy, and meekly resigned herself to the contemplation of her fate. It seems that Mr. Poppinjay was well acquainted with all the crooks and crannies of Rosalind's heart; and after a general reconnoissance, some time since, had concluded that it was most assailable at the same point where Othello laid siege to the heart of Desdemona. He was wont, therefore, to excite her sympathies by a thrilling narrative of the various difficulties through which he had passed; how he had been left at an early age a poor orphan, and had ever since met with nothing but scorn and buffets from the world; how he had at length chanced to meet with one whose companionship could not only make his future life tolerable, but triumphant; how even she continued to

turn a deaf ear to his petitions, and was adding another to the category of his

wrongs.

Now that the grass is growing green over the late Mrs. Poppinjay, Mr. Poppinjay's arguments for a union with Rosalind will reäppear in an enlarged edition. He will duly chronicle the hopes, which, blighted by her wilful refusal, sought to take root, and put forth

leaf under the sun-shine of a second

love; how when time and Christian resignation were gradually neutralizing the visible effects of the old memories, the light of the second love went out in the darkness of the grave. Again is the mildew settling upon the leaves, the sap drying up in the trunk and branches, and the storm of life loosening the tenacity of the roots; and the wood. man's axe will soon sever the last fibre, unless Rosalind shall say: 'Stop, stay thy hand, woodman! this tree shall grow again in the sun-shine of my countenance, renew its leaf in its season, and stretch all of its branches heavenward in the fulness of joy and promise.'

How funny it would be if, after all, Mr. Poppinjay should win her, without the use of any enchantments or medicines for love, and then, Othello-like, describe the success of his tale:

"T WAS strange, 't was passing strange; 't was pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful: She wished she had not heard it, but having heard it,

That HEAVEN had made her such a man!'

Rosalind, determined, however, to withstand the expected assault upon her heart, as long as possible, before surrendering. She knew that Mr. Poppinjay was poor, and would be ill able to furnish her with a choice, much less extravagant wardrobe. If he would have her nolens volens, she would have to submit under protest, but would insist on an outfit of so many silk dresses, and an allowance of so much pin-money, with the understanding that no dress should be worn more than a season, and her wardrobe should be kept replenished. Rosalind hopes by this strategic move in matters of finance, to be able, in the event of Mr. Poppinjay renewing his suit, to cause that gentleman to desist,

or at least to count the cost of a wife before he concludes to take so expensive an article as herself.

Poor Poppinjay is innocent of the expedient which Rosalind has already conceived to thwart his matrimonial aspirations. He still wears a weed' on his hat, in memory of his late beloved. He looks downcast and sorrowful, as if fully conscious of his loss.

Rosalind understands him, however, nearly as well as he understands her. She says that he will soon be brushing up again, and leaving his card. She thinks that he may hesitate before entering into the required stipulations as to her wardrobe. She will bide her time, and hope against hope.

TO BE CONTINUED.

THERE is a baby-market in New-York doing as flourishing a business in its way as the slave-market in Richmond. White children, born of free parents, are here bought and sold on pretty much the same terms as black children born of slaves in Virginia. If you want to buy or sell, you have only to take up the New-York Herald, and glance over the Personal' column of advertisements, in order to see where the shambles are, and ascertain the state of the market, which, like every other market, is regulated by demand and supply. On the whole, these seem to balance each other very evenly. The supply never fails; the demand is constant. Has the reading of the advertisements of this traffic-a couple of which we print as specimens failed to suggest to the public mind the hidden darkness which underlies this dubious strata of social life? or to awaken curiosity as to the sources of that supply and demand, which have turned babies into merchandise?

with fresh water doubtless operate in furnishing the baby-market with its living produce; while the demand for children for adoption, on the part of those who have none of their own, serves to make the trade in children not unprofitable. They are generally procured for nothing, or a trifling sum, and sold at prices varying from fifty to two hundred and fifty dollars each, according to the beauty of the child, and the means of the purchaser. If any one will take the trouble to make a visit of inquiry to one of the houses where this line of business is conducted, he will learn more of the system, and of the secret history of city life, than he has probably any conception of. He need not feel shocked at our suggestion, and he might go to worse places than a baby-market; for there, although the motive is a mercenary one, the cause of humanity is more served than outraged. What, for instance, would become of many of those babies, who are daily adopted out to comfortable and often wealthy homes, if the baby-market did not exist? The crime of infanticide is likely to be often averted by desperate mothers knowing where to find a refuge for their helpless offspring. At the same time, there is but too much reason to believe that these houses offer such facilities for concealment, that an inducement is held out to do wrong; and that women resort to them not in all cases to allow Nature to do its work, but to thwart it by no less monstrous means than the murder of the unborn. And is this last confined to these places, or to a certain class? Statistics would lead us to infer the contrary, and to look for crime where it ought to be least expected.

But so far as the children - we will say nothing of the mothers—are concerned, the philanthropist will see nothing to regret in the sale of babies — sin

gular as it may seem. Poverty and unparental affection combine to supply the baby-market. Wives, whose husbands have gone to the war, and left them with little or no means of support, are too often willing to give or sell their children out for adoption; and the case is more or less the same with regard to widows and widowers belonging to the laboring community. But by far the greater number of children come into the hands of the dealers through any but legitimate channels. The latter are invariably women, whose antecedents in all probability would not bear the strictest investigation, and who profess about an equal knowledge of medicine, nursin, and boarding. They are usually portly, middle-aged, and of determined appearance, apparently equal to any emergency. They are more than averagely good-looking, or at least exhibit signs of having once been so ; and their free, unblushing manner, and showy albeit faded attire, are suggestive of what they once were, and what possibly they still are.

You are ushered into the parlor of the house of one of these; and if you be a woman, she eyes you curiously and boldly, and forms her own opinion as to whether you have come to buy or sell the born or unborn, or become a boardIf she arrives at the first conclusion, she addresses you promptly: 'You want a baby, ma'am? I've got some nice ones to-day.'

er.

You are meek, perhaps timid, and ask to see them.

'Male or female?' inquires the dealer. You have most likely settled this point in your own mind, and answer accordingly, upon which the dealer says, 'Yes, ma'am,' and calls for Kitty- an Irish servant-girl. Kitty forthwith appears, and is told to go up-stairs, and 'fetch down Barnaby Rudge, Abe Lincoln, and the Duke of Wellington,' which illustrious individuals, aged respectively ten days, three weeks, and a month, are brought into the parlor after a few minutes' delay.

'How old did you want him?' asks the dealer.

You may not be particular to a few days or weeks, and commence your inspection of the specimens of humanity placed before you.

'What do you think of the Duke?' queries the dealer.

You express a preference for Abe Lincoln, and he is immediately declared to be the finest child that ever entered the house- and where there have been so many, this is saying much.

'What do you want for him?'
'What do you want to give?'
You hesitate.

'You shall have him for two hundred dollars.'

You shake your

head. 'Well, here's Barnaby Rudge; you shall have him for one hundred and fifty, but he's not near as beautiful.'

You turn your attention more particularly to the Duke, who begins to cry, and to look very pink and distorted in the face.

'You shall have him for a hundred and twenty,' remarks the dealer, suiting her price more to your views.

'I did n't want to give so much.' 'Well, you can't get any thing better than that, I guess, for the money. This is the best lot I ever had, ma'am, and cheap too. Why, they've cost me nearly what I ask for them. If you want a baby for less, and don't mind his being sick, I can suit you. I've got one with the measles, four months old, that I'll sell you for fifty dollars.'

You finally offer a hundred dollars for the Duke of Wellington, and get him You leave the house with your veil over your face, and either take the child home with you in a carriage, or make other arrangements for its transfer. It is not an uncommon event for a lady to call at one of these houses, and buy a child likely to be born on a certain day. The circumstance is suspicious, and calculated to make us doubtful of every child knowing its own mother.

If a middle-aged gentleman should

dealers exercise the right of selection, and that sick or deformed babies are not received by them, for the simple reason that they are not considered marketable. There are not unseldom sad scenes witnessed in these houses; and within their walls has been enacted many a solemn tragedy. But we do not care to penetrate that web of mystery, to which we have referred. We have said enough to convey an inkling of what we mean, and of what is daily transpiring in our midst. Those who wish to know more must go to the shambles, where the white children of New-York are sold at slave prices.

THE President's proclamation of the twenty-second of September has informed the nation, that on the first day of January, 1863, 'all persons held as slaves within any State, or any designated part of a State, the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States, shall be then thenceforward and for ever free;' and that he pledges the Executive Government of the United States, and the military and naval authority, to recognize and maintain their freedom-nay, will do no act 'to repress' them 'in any efforts they may make for their actual freedom.' There is now before the country a limited number of days during which the bosom of every sincere patriot must be agitated with anxieties, with hopes and doubts. Will the people of the South in revolt accept the provisions which shall save them from the effects of this decree? Will they, upon the coming New-Year's Day, have representatives once more duly elected to speak for them beneath the domes of the Capitol? GOD grant that such may be the affirmative result of this proclamation upon the first day of January, 1863. There would then be reflected a brightness over the world which could not fail to rest upon the altars of every sanctuary, and within the unnumbered homes of humanity. Such are the feelings which well up in the popular heart; but they are not unmingled with doubts, with fears, ay, with the unqualified conviction that it will not produce so great a boon. Indeed it would be absurd to expect it.

We have a high respect for President Lincoln; and since his nomination for the chair he fills, we have silently and carefully watched his career. We care nothing for the grace of rhetoric in comparison with that other grace which we believe he possesses in an eminent de

gree

we mean honesty of purpose. 'What I do about slavery and the colored race,' said he, in his letter to Horace Greeley of August twenty-second, 'I do because I believe it will help to save this Union.' This, without doubt, was one of the moving causes to his late manifesto although some outside pressure, as it is termed, for aught we know might have been an additional weight in turning the scale. The position which he occupies is no sinecure. There is an immense responsibility about it, and it is very easy to criticise the acts of those in office by those who are out of it; but we have an opinion, independent and without political bias, which we may be permitted to express.

We sincerely love our country, and looking back to the resolution of Congress, (twenty-second July, 1861,) we remember how the blood leapt in our veins, reminding us as it did of the spirit and tone of '76 a period which, amid a thousand trials, still retained the most noble and generous sentiments. We repeat it here: "That in this national emergency, Congress, banishing all feelings of mere passion or resentment, will recollect only its duty to the whole country; that this war is not waged on their part in any spirit of oppression, or for any purpose of conquest or subjugation, or purpose of overthrowing or interfering with the rights or established institutions of these States; but to defend and maintain the supremacy of the Constitution, and to preserve the Union, with all the dignity, equality, and rights of the several States unimpaired; and that as soon as these objects are accomplished the war ought to cease.' (Yeas, 117; Nays, 2.)