I like not your care and sorrow,
Care to-day and care to-morrow;
I like not your brows of sadness—
Give me rather tones of gladness;
A heart where laughter loves to dwell,
Exclaiming, 'Vive la Bagatelle!'

What is fame?—an empty bubble,
Nothing worth, though earned with trouble;
What are riches?—can mines of wealth
Buy happiness—contentment—health?
Nor fame nor riches own a spell,
To wean me from 'La Bagatelle!'

There is a time for every doing,
A time for working and for wooing;
A time when we can all be gay,
Cheat Sadness of her hoped-for prey,
Lock monkish Sorrow in his cell,
And hey! for 'Vive la Bagatelle!'

Then live the dance, and live the song,
And live Joy's gay and happy throng;
Then live the laugh, the joke, the pun—
Live frolic, fancy, sport and fun;
And let their song in chorus swell,
Its burthen, 'Vive la Bagatelle!'

Le Chansonnier.

[THE BACKWOODS.]

NUMBER ONE.

JUBA.

Reader, were you ever in Carolina?—in that part, I mean, where the long, swelling range of the Blue Ridge begins to decline gradually to the fair and fertile plain, 'et molli se subducere clivo?' I shall take it for granted you have not, and do most earnestly recommend you (if you be not prejudiced with tales of fevers dire, which attack only the stranger,) to wend your way thither, if practicable, the ensuing season. Have you been cramped over the counting-house desk till your frame pines for purer air? Seek the mountains; inhale the balmy and bracing breeze from our thousand wood-capped hills; and thank heaven that the air is free. Have you moved in the monotonous and mill-horse round of city life, either in its high or its low dissipation and frivolity, till your heart is sick within you at its hollowness and vanity? There shall you see men of Nature's own make, not starched into a precise formality, nor with souls and limbs alike fettered with artificial restraint, but with nerves, and elastic frames, that do credit to their 'raising,' with quick feeling and buoyant hopes sparkling in their eyes; in a word, Backwoodsmen. Perhaps you may see an individual of the half-horse, half-alligator tribe; but the species is nearly extinct, and physiologists will soon reckon them among the Megatheria of past ages—the Hipposaurus of America.