says Mr. Willis, "was by a call which we received from a lady who introduced herself to us as the mother of his wife. She was in search of employment for him, and she excused her errand by mentioning that he was ill, that her daughter was a confirmed invalid, and that their circumstances were such as compelled her taking it upon herself. The countenance of this lady, made beautiful and saintly with an evidently complete giving up of her life to privation and sorrowful tenderness, her gentle and mournful voice urging its plea, her long-forgotten but habitually and unconsciously refined manners, and her appealing and yet appreciative mention of the claims and abilities of her son, disclosed at once the presence of one of those angels upon earth that women in adversity can be. It was a hard fate that she was watching over. Mr. Poe wrote with fastidious diffìculty, and in a style too much above the popular level to be well paid. He was always in pecuniary difficulty, and, with his sick wife, frequently in want of the merest necessaries of life. Winter after winter, for years, the most touching sight to us, in this whole city, has been that tireless minister to genius, thinly and insufficiently clad, going from office to office with a poem, or an article on some literary subject, to sell-sometimes simply pleading in a broken voice that he was ill, and begging for him-mentioning nothing but that he was ill,' whatever might be the reason for his writing nothing-and never, amid all her tears and recitals of distress, suffering one syllable to escape her lips that could convey a doubt of him, or a complaint, or a lessening of pride in his genius and good intentions. Her daughter died, a year and a half since, but she did not desert him. She continued his ministering angel-living with him-caring for him-guarding him against exposure, and, when he was carried away by temptation, amid grief and the loneliness of feelings unreplied to, and awoke from his self-abandonment prostrated in destitution and suffering, begging for him still. If woman's devotion, born with a first love, and fed with human passion, hallow its object, as it is allowed to do, what does not a devotion like this-pure, disinterested and holy as the watch of an invisible spirit--say for him who inspired it?

"To hedge round a grave with respect, what choice is there, between the relinquished wealth and honours of the world, and the story of such a woman's unrewarded devotion! Risking what we do, in delicacy, by making it public, we feel--other reasons aside--that it betters the world to make known that there are such ministrations to its erring and gifted. What we have said will speak to some hearts. There are those who will be glad to know how the lamp, whose light of poetry has beamed on their far-away recognition, was watched over with care and pain-that they may send to her, who is more darkened than they by its extinction, some token of their sympathy. She is destitute, and alone. If any, far or near, will send to us what may aid and cheer her through the remainder of her life, we will joyfully place it in her hands."

It was this estimable lady, the mother of his deceased wife, to whom Poe, not long before his death, addressed the beautiful Sonnet published in the Leaflets for 1850. We quoted it once before, but cannot more pleasantly close the present somewhat disjointed notice than by quoting it again.

TO MY MOTHER.

Because I feel that, in the heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore, by that dear name I long have called you--
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother--my own mother-who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,

And thus are dearer than the mother I knew,

By that infinity with which my wife

Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

EGYPT AND THE HOLY LAND. By the Rev. J. A. Spencer. New York: Putnam. This work was received from A. Hart, Philadelphia, just on the eve of our going to press. It is in shape and appearance like the splendid work on Nineveh, brought out last season by the same enterprising publisher. It is filled with engravings of the same general character as Mr. Layard's book, and if we may judge from so cursory an examination as we have been able to give, it will prove equally valuable and attractive. GIBBON'S DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE. first volume of the new edition of this work by our Boston friends, Phillips, Sampson, & Co., has just made its appearance. It makes a very suitable companion to "Hume,” and is exactly like the latter in size and appearance. is to be completed in six volumes, including Milman's Notes, and a copious index. The first volume has an engraved likeness of the author.

Ourselves.

The

It

ONCE more, and at the risk of becoming tiresome, we must repeat our thanks to our friends throughout the country, and particularly to the postmasters, for their hearty and continued co-operation. In consequence of the kindness with which our efforts have been received, our subscription list has increased greatly beyond our most sanguine expectations. We were obliged, as stated in our last, to reprint the January and February numbers, before we had nearly supplied the demand. This caused some delay in getting out the March number. But as we took care to print a sufficient quantity of that. we are able to come out with the April, and shall come out with the future numbers, promptly and cheerily.

We give this month two more of our illustrations of Shakespeare's "Seven Ages." The Line Engraving of "Paul at Malta," or the Mezzotint of "The Departure," either of them, is worth the price of the number. But the gem of the Magazine is the Tinted Engraving of "Spring." -what could be more graceful or more brilliant?

A SENSIBLE PRESENT.-No apology, we are sure, is needed for introducing the following quotation from a letter of one of our correspondents. We are not at liberty, much to our regret, to give our friend's name. He is a gentleman well known, both in the literary and the political world. His letter, however, will speak for itself.

"Wishing," says he, "to make the subscription to your Magazine a present to Mrs., I stepped into a bookstore, and in answer to my inquiry, was handed the last No. of Sartain. I paid my quarter, and took the pamphlet home. The next day I went to Dewitt & Davenport's, paid my five dollars, and became entitled to the numbers for 1849, as well as to those for 1850; and when the package came home, we were wonderstruck at the bargain. The plates being worth more than the money paid, I asked Mrs. if I was not bound in conscience to call again and settle for the printed matter? She thought such a course would be proper, though probably not common. I hope you gain money, as well as reputation, by the concern; but I do not see how such an abundance and variety can be served up for twenty-five cents. Thirty years ago, I sat down to a breakfast in Ohio, for which I was charged the same price, [twenty-five cents,] having thirteen substantial dishes, besides pickles, sauces, &c. I have often quoted this as the greatest bargain I had ever seen. I think now, that a SARTAIN'S MAGAZINE, for abundance variety, and cheapness, beats the Ohio breakfast out of all chance for further quotation!"