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 hours of agony
  Again before my mind:—­I mourned his doom;
  I mourned my own:  the sunny little room
  In which, opress’d by sickness, now I lay,
  Weeping for sorrows past, and woes to come,
  Had been my own in childhood’s early day. 
  Oh! could those years indeed so soon have passed away!

  Past, as the waters of the running brook;
  Fled, as the summer winds that fan the flowers! 
  All that remained, a word—­a tone—­a look,
  Impressed, by chance, in those bright joyous hours;
  Blossoms which, culled from youth’s light fairy bowers,
  Still float with lingering scent, as loath to fade,
  In spite of sin’s remorseless, ’whelming powers,
  Above the wreck which time and grief have made. 
  Nursed with the dew of tears, though low in ruin laid.