The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly
Magazine, February 1844, by Various

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Title: The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, February 1844
       Volume 23, Number 2

Author: Various

Release Date: October 14, 2006 [EBook #19542]

Language: English

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    T H E  K N I C K E R B O C K E R.

VOL. XXIII.      FEBRUARY, 1844.      NO. 2.




SICILIAN SCENERY AND ANTIQUITIES.

BY THOMAS COLE.


A few months only have elapsed since I travelled over the classic land of
Sicily; and the impressions left on my mind by its picturesqueness,
fertility, and the grandeur of its architectural remains, are more vivid,
and fraught with more sublime associations, than any I received during my
late sojourn in Europe. The pleasure of travelling, it seems to me, is
chiefly experienced after the journey is over; when we can sit down by our
own snug fire-side, free from all the fatigues and annoyances which are
its usual concomitants; and, if our untravelled friends are with us,
indulge in the comfortable and harmless vanity of describing the wonders
and dangers of those distant lands, and like Goldsmith's old soldier,
'Shoulder the crutch and _show_ how fields were won.' I was about to
remark, that those who travel only in books travel with much less
discomfort, and perhaps enjoy as much, as those who travel in reality; but
I fancy there are some of my young readers who would rather test the
matter by their own experience, than by the inadequate descriptions which
I have to offer them.

Sicily, as is well known, is the largest island in the Mediterranean Sea.
It was anciently called Trinacria, from its triangular shape, and is about
six hundred miles in circumference. Each of its extremities is terminated
by a promontory, one of which was called by the ancients Lilybeum, and
faces Africa; another called Pachynus, faces the Peloponessus of Greece;
and the third, Pelorum, now Capo di Boco, faces Italy. The aspect of the
country is very mountainous: some of the mountains are lofty; but towering
above all, like an enthroned spirit, rises Ętna. His giant form can be
seen from elevated grounds in the most remote parts of the island, and the
mariner can discern his snowy crown more than a hundred miles. But Sicily
abounds in luxuriant plains and charming valleys, and its soil is
proverbially rich: it once bore the appellation of the Granary of Rome;
and it is now said that if properly tilled it would produce more grain
than any country of its size in the world. Its beauty and fertility were
often celebrated by ancient bards, who described the sacred flocks and
herds of Apollo on its delightful slopes. The plain of Enna, where
Proserpine and her nymphs gathered flowers, was famous for delicious
honey; and according to an ancient writer, hounds lost their scent when
hunting, in consequence of the odoriferous flowers which perfumed the air;
and this may be no fable; for in Spring, as I myself have seen, the
flowers are abundant and fragrant beyond description; and it seemed to me
that the gardens of Europe had been supplied with two-thirds of their
choicest treasures from the wild stores of Sicily.

The history of Sicily is as varied and interesting as the features of its
surface; but of this I must give only such a brief and hurried sketch as,
to those who are not conversant with it, will serve to render the scenes I
intend to describe more intelligible and interesting than they otherwise
would be. Its early history, then, like that of most nations of antiquity,
is wrapped in obscurity. Poets feign that its original inhabitants were
Cyclops; after them the Sicani, a people supposed to have been from Spain,
were the possessors; then came the Siculi, a people of Italy. The
enterprising Phoenicians, those early monarchs of the sea, whose ships had
even visited the remote and barbarous shores of Britain, formed some
settlements upon it; and in the eighth century before Christ various
colonies of Greeks were planted on its shores, and became in time the sole
possessors of the island. These Grecian founders of Syracuse, Gela, and
Agrigentum, seduced from their own country by the love of enterprise, or
driven by necessity or revolution from their homes, brought with them the
refinement, religion, and love of the beautiful, that have distinguished
their race above all others; and in a short time after their establishment
in Sicily, the magnificence of their cities, the grandeur of their
temples, equalled if they did not surpass those of their fatherland. About
the year 480 before Christ, a fierce enemy landed on the coast of Sicily
with two thousand gallies: this was the warlike Carthaginian, whose altars
smoked with the sacrifice of human victims. This formidable invader was
defeated under the great Gelon of Syracuse, who was called the father of
his country; but the Carthaginians, returned again and with better
fortune, at length became masters of the island. The Romans next conquered
Sicily, and held it for several centuries. The Saracens in the ninth
century were in the full tide of successful conquest. They landed first in
the bay of Mazara, near Selinuntium, and after various conflicts and
fortune, finally subjugated the whole island in the year 878. The crescent
continued to glitter over the towers of Sicily for about three centuries,
when the Normans, a band of adventurers whom the crusades of the Holy
Sepulchre had brought from their northern homes, after a conflict of
thirty years under Count Roger, expelled the Saracen in the year 1073, and
planted the banner of the cross in every city of the land. Soon after that
time it came under Spain and Austria; France and England have severally
been its rulers. It is now under the crown of Naples.

Such is a brief outline of the eventful history of Sicily; a land formed
by nature in her fairest mould; but which the crimes and ambition of men
have desecrated by violence, oppression, and bloodshed; and with the
substitution of a word, one might exclaim with the poet:

    'SICILIA! O SICILIA! thou who hast
    The fatal gift of beauty, which became
    A funeral dower of present woes and past,
    On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame,
    And annals graved in characters of flame.
    Oh GOD! that thou wert in thy nakedness
    Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim
    Thy right, and awe the robbers back who press
  To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress!'

Her brightest age was when the Greek threw the light of his genius around
her; when rose those mighty temples which now, even in their ruin, call
forth the wonder and admiration of the traveller; her greatest degradation
was in the age just passed away. As an exemplification of this, it is
sufficient to say, that from the time of the Norman until the accession of
the present monarch, a space of seven hundred years, not a single road has
been constructed in the island. But we have reason to believe that a
brighter day now dawns, and that ere long the sun of civilization will
dispel the clouds that have so long overshadowed the mountains of Sicily.

He who would make a tour through this magnificent land, must make up his
mind to submit to much fatigue, some danger, and innumerable annoyances;
such as filth, bad fare, the continual torment of vermin; lodgings, to
which a stable with clean hay would be in comparison a paradise; knavish
attempts at imposition of various kinds, etc. He must mount on a mule
whose saddle is of rude and of abominable construction; whose bit is a
sort of iron vice, which clasps the animal's nose and under-jaw, and every
day wears away the flesh; and whose bridle is a piece of rope fastened to
the bit on one side only. He must ford rivers of various depth; he must
fear no ascent or descent, however precipitous, if there appears to be a
track; and at times he must have a careful eye to the priming of his
pistol; and above all, a patient and enduring temper is a _great_ comfort.

The aspect of Sicily is widely different from that of this country; its
beauty is dependent on other forms and associations. _Here_, we have vast
forests that stretch their shady folds in melancholy grandeur; the
mountain tops themselves are clad in thick umbrage, which, rejoicing in
the glory of the autumnal season, array themselves in rainbow dyes.
_There_, no wide forests shade the land; but mountains more abrupt than
ours, and bearing the scars of volcanic fire and earthquake on their
brows, are yet clothed with flowers and odoriferous shrubs. The plains and
slopes of the mountains are now but partially under cultivation; vineyards
and olive-groves generally clothe the latter, while over the gentler
undulating country, or the plains, fenceless fields stretch far away, a
wilderness of waving grain, through which the traveller may ride for hours
nor meet a human being, nor see a habitation, save when he lifts his eyes
to some craggy steep or mountain pinnacle, where stands the clustered
village. The villages and larger towns are generally set among groves of
orange, almond, and pomegranate trees, with here and there a dark Carruba,
or Leutisk tree, casting its ample shade. Fields of the broad bean, the
chief food of the laboring classes, serves at times to vary with vivid
green the monotony of the landscape. The traveller rolls along over no
Macadamised road in his comfortable carriage, but mounted on his mule,
leaves him to choose his own track among the numerous ones that form what
is called the _strada-maėstro_, or master-road, between city and city.
Here and there he will come to a stone fountain, constructed perhaps
centuries ago, which still furnishes a delightful beverage for himself and
beast. Oftentimes the road leads through a country entirely waste, and
covered with tall bunches of grass or the dwarfish palmetto; sometimes in
the cultivated districts the road is bounded by the formidable
prickly-pear, which grows to the height of twenty feet, or by rows of the
stately aloe, and not unfrequently by wild hedges of myrtle, intertwined
with innumerable climbing plants, whose flowers the traveller can pick as
he rides along. Generally the road-side is perfectly enamelled with
flowers of various hue and fragrance. No majestic river, like the Hudson,
spreads before him, with all its glittering sails and swift steam-boats;
but ever and anon the blue and placid Mediterranean bounds his vision, or
indents the shore, with here and there a picturesque and lazy barque
reflected in the waves.

I have before said that the towns and villages are generally perched like
eagles' nests in high places. This is particularly the case with those of
the interior: many of them are inaccessible to carriages, except the
_Letiga_, a sort of large sedan-chair, gaudily decorated with pictures of
saints, and suspended between two mules, one of which trots before and the
other behind, to the continual din of numerous bells and the harsh shouts
of the muleteers. I never saw one of these vehicles, which are the only
travelling carriages of the interior of Sicily, without thinking that
there might be a _land-sickness_ even worse than a sea-sickness; for the
motion of the letiga in clambering up and down the broken steeps must be
far more tempestuous than any thing ever experienced at sea. Between
village and village you see no snug villa, farm-house, or cottage by the
road-side, or nestling among the trees; but here and there a gloomy
castellated building, a lonely ruin or stern Martello tower, whose
dilapidated walls crown some steep headland, against whose base washes the
ever-murmuring waves. Now the traveller descends to the beach, his only
road; the mountains are far inland, or dip their broad bases in the
sea-foam, or impend in fearful masses over his head. He ascends again, and
journeys over wastes which undoubtedly in the time of the Greek and the
Roman were covered with fruits and grain; but which now are treeless and
desolate as the deep whose breezes stir the flowers that deck them. At
times he must ford streams, which, if swollen with late rains, are
perilous in the extreme.

I remember once on my journey descending from one of those treeless wastes
upon a spot very different from any thing on this side of the Atlantic. It
was called Verdura, from its green and verdant character. A stream which
flowed through a plain bounded by lofty mountains here fell into the sea.
A large mill, which much resembles an ancient castle, and in all
probability had served both purposes in times gone by, stood near. Upon
the sandy beach close by, and hauled entirely out of the water, lay
several vessels in the style of Homer's ships; and I have no doubt bore a
strong resemblance to ships of ancient time, for they were picturesquely
formed, and painted fantastically with figures of fishes and eyes. The
wild-looking mariners were lounging lazily about in their shaggy capotes,
or engaged in loading their vessels with grain, the product of the
neighboring plains. Up the steep we had just descended a letiga was slowly
winding; and on a green declivity overlooking the sea, a flock of goats
were browsing, and their shepherd reclined near in listless idleness. Open
and treeless as was this scene, there was such a peaceful character about
it, such an air of primitive simplicity, that it made a strong impression
on my mind.

It does not come within the scope of this paper to offer any description
of the larger cities of Sicily, Palermo, Messina, etc. Most readers have
seen accounts of them more ample and more interesting than I could offer.
Of the smaller places I must content myself with giving a very general
description, so that I may retain the requisite space, in this division of
my article, for some notice of an ascent which I made to the sublime
summit of Mount Ętna.

The secondary towns to which I have alluded, such as Calatifini, Sciacca,
Caltagerone, etc., are in general picturesquely situated, and are built in
a massive and sometimes even in a magnificent style. The churches and
houses are all of hewn stone, and exhibit the various styles of
architecture of the builders; the Saracenic, the Norman-Gothic, or the
later Spanish taste. Sometimes the styles are fantastically intermixed;
but the whole, to the architect, is extremely interesting. Flat roofs and
projecting stone balconies from the upper windows are perhaps the most
characteristic features of the houses. The churches, though large, are
seldom beautiful specimens of architecture; and the interior is in general
extremely ornate, and decorated with gaudy gilding and pictures, and
images of CHRIST and saints, disgustingly painted. The streets, wide or
narrow, would appear to us somewhat gloomy and prison-like; and paint is a
thing scarcely known on the exterior or perhaps interior of an ordinary
house. The air of the interior of the common houses of the Sicilian towns
is as gloomy and comfortless as can be imagined. A few wooden benches, a
table firmly fixed in the stone pavement, a fire-place composed of a few
blocks of stone placed on the floor, the smoke of which is allowed to make
its escape as it best can at the window, which is always destitute of
glass, and is closed by a rude wooden shutter when required; a bed
consisting of a mattress of the same hue as the floor, raised a few feet
from it by means of boards on a rude frame; some sheep-skins for blankets,
and sheets of coarse stuff whose color serves as an effectual check on the
curiosity of him who would pry too closely into its texture; are the chief
articles of furniture to be found in the habitations of the Sicilian poor.
Beside the human inhabitants of these uninviting abodes, there are
innumerable lively creatures, whose names it were almost impolite to
mention in polished ears; and I might not have alluded to them had they
confined themselves to such places; but they rejoice in the palace as well
as in the cottage, and to the traveller's sorrow inflict themselves
without his consent as travelling companions through the whole Sicilian
tour.

The houses of the more wealthy are spacious and airy, but not much
superior in point of comfort. They are often of commanding exterior, and
are called _palazzi_, or palaces. Of course, there are exceptions to this
general character of discomfort; but judging from my own observation, they
are few. On approaching a Sicilian village, the eye of the traveller will
almost surely be attracted by a capacious and solid building, surmounted
by a belfry-tower, and commanding the most charming prospect in the
vicinity. It is surrounded with orange groves and cypress-trees, and looks
like a place fitted for the enjoyment of a contemplative life. He will not
long remain in doubt as to the purpose of the building whose site is so
delightfully chosen; for walking slowly along the shady path, or seated in
some pleasant nook, singly or in groups, he will perceive the long-robed
monks, the reverend masters of the holy place.

Connoisseurs say that a landscape is imperfect without figures; and as
that is the case in a picture, it is most probably so in a magazine
article; and the reader might complain if I were to neglect giving some
slight outlines of the figures of the Sicilian landscape. In travelling
from city to city, although they may not be more than twenty miles apart,
the wayfarer meets with very few persons on the road; seldom an
individual, and only now and then, at an interval of miles, a group of men
mounted on mules, each person carrying a gun; or perhaps a convoy of
loaded mules and asses with several muleteers, some mounted and some on
foot, who urge by uncouth cries and blows the weary beasts over the rocky
or swampy ground, or up some steep acclivity or across some torrent's bed.
At times he will see a shepherd or two watching their flocks; these are
half-naked, wild looking beings, scarcely raised in the scale of
intelligence above their bleating charge. Their dwelling may be hard by, a
conical hut of grass or straw, or a ruined tower. On the fertile slopes or
plains he will sometimes observe a dozen yokes of oxen ploughing abreast.
The laborers probably chose this contiguity for the sake of company across
the wide fields. If the grass or grain is to be cut, it is by both men and
women armed with a rude sickle only. It is seldom you meet either man or
woman on foot upon the roads; men scarcely ever. Donkeys are about as
numerous as men, and their ludicrous bray salutes your ear wherever the
human animal is to be seen.

The peasant-women through a great part of Sicily wear a semi-circular
piece of woollen cloth over their heads; it is always black or white, and
hangs in agreeable folds over the neck and shoulders. There is but little
beauty among them; and alas! how should there be? They are in general
filthy; the hair of both old and young is allowed to fall in uncombed
elf-locks about their heads; and the old women are often hideous and
disgustful in the extreme. The heart bleeds for the women: they have more
than their share of the labors of the field; they have all the toils of
the men, added to the pains and cares of womanhood. They dig, they reap,
they carry heavy burthens--burthens almost incredible. In the vicinity of
Ętna I met a woman walking down the road knitting: on her head was a large
mass of lava weighing at least thirty pounds, and on the top of this lay a
small hammer. Being puzzled to know why the woman carried such a piece of
lava where lava was so abundant, I inquired 'the wherefore' of Luigi, our
guide. He answered that as she wished to knit, and not having pockets, she
had taken that plan to carry the little hammer conveniently. That piece of
stone, which would break our necks to carry, was evidently to her no more
than a heavy hat would be to us. It may be thought that I draw a sorry
picture of these poor Islanders; but I would have it understood that on
the side of Messina, and some other parts, there is apparently a little
more civilization; but they are an oppressed and degraded peasantry;
ignorant, superstitious, filthy, and condemned to live on the coarsest
food. They are as the beasts that perish, driven by necessity to sow that
which they may not reap. How applicable are the words of ADDISON:

  'How has kind Heaven adorn'd the happy land
  And scattered blessings with a wasteful hand!
  But what avails her unexhausted stores,
  Her blooming mountains and her sunny shores,
  With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart,
  The smiles of nature and the charms of art,
  While proud oppression in her valleys reigns,
  And tyranny usurps her happy plains?
  The poor inhabitant beholds in vain
  The reddening orange and the swelling grain:
  Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines,
  And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines:
  Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curst,
  And in the loaded vineyard dies of thirst.'

But the Sicilians are _naturally_ a gay, light-hearted people, like the
Greeks, their forefathers; and if the cloud which now rests upon them were
removed, and we have reason to think it is lifting, they would be as
bright and sunny as their own skies. The women of the better classes wear
the black mantilla when they venture into the streets, which they seldom
do, except to attend mass or the confessional. This robe is extremely
elegant, as it is worn, but it requires an adept to adjust it gracefully.
It covers the whole person from head to foot; in parts drawn closely to
the form, in others falling in free folds. But for its color, I should
admire it much: it seems such an incongruity for a young and beautiful
female to be habited in what appear to be mourning robes. I was often
reminded of those wicked lines of BYRON'S on the gondola:

  'For sometimes they contain a deal of fun,
  Like mourning-coaches when the funeral's done.'

But let us turn from the animate to the inanimate, and visit the famous
Ętna, called by the Sicilians _Mongibello_. From the silence of Homer on
the subject, it is supposed that in his remote age the fires of the
mountain were unknown; but geologists have proof that they have a far more
ancient date. The Grecian poet Pindar is the first who mentions its
eruptions. He died four hundred and thirty-five years before CHRIST; from
that time to this, at irregular intervals, it has vomited forth its
destructive lavas. It is computed to be eleven thousand feet high. Its
base, more than an hundred miles in circumference, is interspersed with
numerous conical hills, each of which is an extinct crater, whose sides,
now shaded by the vine, the fig tree, and the habitations of man, once
glowed with the fiery torrent. Some of them are yet almost destitute of
vegetation; mere heaps of scorię and ashes; but the more ancient ones are
richly clad with verdure. Let the reader imagine a mountain whose base is
as broad as the whole range of the Catskills, as seen from Catskill
village, rising to nearly three times their height; its lower parts are of
gentle ascent, but as it rises it becomes more and more steep, until it
terminates in a broken summit. Imagine it divided, as the eye ascends,
into three regions or belts: the first and lowest is covered with
villages, gardens, vineyards, olive-groves, oranges, and fields of grain
and flax, and the date-bearing palm. The second region, which commences
about four thousand feet above the sea, is called the _Regione Sylvosa_,
or woody region. Here chestnuts, hexes, and on the north pines of great
size flourish. This belt reaches to the elevation of about seven thousand
feet, where the _Regione Scoperta_, or bare region, commences. The lower
part of this is intermingled lava, rocks, volcanic sands, and snow; still
higher are vast fields of spotless snow, which centuries have seen
unwasted, with here and there a ridgy crag of black lava, too steep for
the snows to lodge upon; and toward the summit of the cone, dark patches
of scorię and ashes, which, heated by the slumbering fires, defy the icy
blasts of these upper realms of air. It will readily be supposed that,
when viewed from a distance, Mount Ętna is an object to make a deep
impression on the mind:

  But for yon filmy smoke, that from thy crest
  Continual issues like a morning mist
  The sun disperses, there would be no sign
  That from thy mighty breast bursts forth at times
  The sulphurous storm--the avalanche of fire;
  That midnight is made luminous, and day
  A ghastly twilight, by thy lurid breath.
  By thee tormented, Earth is tossed and riven:
  The shuddering mountains reel; temples and towers
  The works of man, and man himself, his hopes
  His harvests, all a desolation made!
  Sublime art thou, O Mount! whether beneath
  The moon in silence sleeping with thy woods,
  And driving snows, and golden fields of corn;
  Or bleat on thy slant breast the gentle flocks,
  And shepherds in the mellow glow of eve
  Pipe merrily; or when thy scathéd sides
  Are laved with fire, answered thine earthquake voice
  By screams and clamor of affrighted men.
  Sublime thou art!--a resting-place for thought,
  Thought reaching far above thy bounds; from thee
  To HIM who bade the central fires construct
  This wondrous fabric; lifted thy dread brow
  To meet the sun while yet the earth is dark,
  And ocean, with its ever-murmuring waves.

On the ninth of May, myself and travelling companion commenced the ascent
of Mount Ętna; and as the season was not the most favorable, the snows
extending farther down the sides of the mountain than in summer, we were
equipped, under the direction of our guide, with coarse woollen stockings
to be drawn over the pantaloons, thick-soled shoes, and woollen caps.
Mounting our mules, we left Catania in the morning. The road was good and
of gradual ascent until we reached Nicolosi, about fourteen miles up the
mountain. We saw little that was particularly interesting on our route
except that the hamlets through which we passed bore fearful evidences of
the effects of earthquake. Arrived at Nicolosi, the place where travellers
usually procure guides and mules for the mountain, it was our intention to
rest for the remainder of the day; but Monte Rosso, an extinguished
crater, being in the vicinity, my curiosity got the better of my intention
to rest, and I sallied forth to examine it. The road lay through the
village, which is built of the lava, and is arid and black, and many of
the buildings rent and twisted. Monte Rosso was formed by the eruption of
1669, which threw out a torrent of lava that flowed thirteen miles,
destroying a great part of the city of Catania in its resistless course to
the sea, where it formed a rugged promontory which at this day appears as
black, bare, and herbless as on the day when its fiery course was arrested
by the boiling waters. And here I would remark, that the lavas of Ętna are
very different from those of Vesuvius. The latter decompose in half a
century, and become capable of cultivation; those of Ętna remain unchanged
for centuries, as that of Monte Rosso testifies. It has now been exposed
to the action of the weather nearly two hundred years, with the exception
of the interstices where the dust and sand have collected, it is destitute
of vegetation. Broken in cooling into masses of rough but sharp fracture,
its aspect is horrid and forbidding, and it is exceedingly difficult to
walk over. If two centuries have produced so little change, how _many_
centuries must have served to form the rich soil which covers the greater
part of the mountain's sides and base!

Our purpose was to see the sun rise from the summit of Ętna; and at nine
in the evening, our mules and guides being ready, we put on our Sicilian
capotes, and sallied forth. We had two guides, a muleteer, and as there
was no moon, a man with a lantern to light the mules in their passage over
the beds of lava. For several miles the way was uninteresting, it being
too dark to see any thing except the horrid lava or sand beneath the feet
of the mules. At times the road was so steep that we were ordered by our
guides to lean forward on the necks of the mules, to keep them and
ourselves from being thrown back. At length we entered the woody region.
Here the path was less rocky; and as we wound up the mountain's side,
beneath the shadows of noble trees, I could not but feel the solemn
quietness of a night on Ętna, and contrast it with what has been and what
will in all probability be again, the intermitting roar of the neighboring
volcano, and the dreadful thunder of the earthquake. At midnight we
arrived at the _Casa delle Neve_, or House of Snow. This is a rude
building of lava, with bare walls, entirely destitute of furniture. We
made a fire on the ground, took some refreshments which we had brought
with us, and in about an hour remounted our mules, and proceeded on our
journey. We soon left the region of woods; and being now at an elevation
of seven thousand feet above the sea, felt somewhat cold, and buttoned our
capotes closer about us. From the ridges of lava along which we rode, by
the light of the stars which now became brilliant, we could discern the
snow stretching in long lines down the ravines on either hand; and as we
advanced, approaching nearer and nearer, until at length it spread in
broad fields before us. As the mules could go no farther, we dismounted,
and taking an iron-pointed staff in our hands, we commenced the journey
over the snows. It was now half-past one, and we had seven miles to
traverse before reaching the summit. The first part of the ascent was
discouraging, for it was steep, and the snow so slippery that we sometimes
fell on our faces; but it became rather less steep as we ascended, and
though fatiguing, we got along comfortably. As the atmosphere was becoming
rare, and the breathing hurried, we sat on the snow for a few minutes now
and then. At such times we could not but be struck with the splendor of
the stars, far beyond any thing I had ever seen. The milky way seemed
suspended in the deep heavens, like a luminous cloud, with clear and
definite outline. We next arrived at the _Casa degli Inglese_; so called,
but alas for us! the ridge of the roof and a part of the gable were all
that rose above the snow. In the midst of summer, travellers may make use
of it; but to us it was unavailing, except the gable, which served in a
measure to shield us from the icy wind which now swept over the mountain.
We again partook of a little refreshment, by way of preparation for the
most arduous part of our undertaking, and were now at the foot of the
great cone. The ascent was toilsome in the extreme. Snow, melted beneath
in many places by the heat of the mountain; sharp ridges of lava; loose
sand, ashes, and cinders, into which last the foot sank at every step,
made the ascent difficult as well as dangerous. The atmosphere was so rare
that we had to stop every few yards to breathe. At such times we could
hear our hearts beat within us like the strokes of a drum. But it was now
light, and we reached the summit of the great cone just as the sun rose.

It was a glorious sight which spread before our eyes! We took a hasty
glance into the gloomy crater of the volcano and throwing ourselves on the
warm ashes, gazed in wonder and astonishment. It would be vain for me to
attempt a description of the scene. I scarcely knew the world in which I
had lived. The hills and valleys over which we had been travelling for
many days, were comprised within the compass of a momentary glance. Sicily
lay at our feet, with all its 'many folded' mountains, its plains, its
promontories, and its bays; and round all, the sea stretched far and wide
like a lower sky; the Lipari islands, Stromboli and its volcano, floating
upon it like small dusky clouds; and the Calabrian coast visible, I should
suppose, for two hundred miles, like a long horizontal bank of vapor! As
the sun rose, the great pyramidal shadow of Ętna was cast across the
island, and all beneath it rested in twilight-gloom. Turning from this
wonderful scene, we looked down into the crater, on whose verge we lay. It
was a fearful sight, apparently more than a thousand feet in depth, and a
mile in breadth, with precipitous and in some places overhanging sides,
which were varied with strange and discordant colors. The steeps were rent
into deep chasms and gulfs, from which issued white sulphurous smoke, that
rose and hung in fantastic wreaths about the horrid crags; thence
springing over the edge of the crater, seemed to dissipate in the clear
keen air. I was somewhat surprised to perceive several sheets of snow
lying at the very bottom of the crater, a proof that the internal fires
were in a deep slumber. The edge of the crater was a mere ridge of scorię
and ashes, varying in height; and it required some care, in places, to
avoid falling down the steep on one hand, or being precipitated into the
gulf on the other. The air was keen; but fortunately there was little
wind; and after spending about an hour on the summit, we commenced our
descent.

We varied our course from the one we took on ascending, and visited an
altar erected to Jupiter by the ancients, now called the _Torre del
Filosofo_. Soon after we came upon the verge of a vast crater, the period
of whose activity is beyond the earliest records of history. _Val di
Bove_, as it is called, is a tremendous scene. Imagine a basin several
miles across, a thousand feet in depth at least, with craggy and
perpendicular walls on every side; its bottom broken into deep ravines and
chasms, and shattered pinnacles, as though the lava in its molten state
had been shaken and tossed by an earthquake, and then suddenly congealed.
It is into this ancient crater that the lava of the most recent eruption
is descending. It is fortunate that it has taken that direction.

In another and concluding number, the reader's attention will be directed
to the _Architectural Antiquities of Sicily_, especially those of Grecian
structure, which will be described in the order in which they were
visited.




LINES TO TIME.

BY MRS. J. WEBB.


  Oh Time! I'll weave, to deck thy brow,
  A wreath fresh culled from Flora's treasure:
  If thou wilt backward turn thy flight
  To youth's bright morn of joy and pleasure.
  'Joys ill exchanged for riper years;'
  The bard, alas! hath truly spoken:
  I've wept the truth in burning tears
  O'er many a fair hope crushed and broken.

  In vain my sager, wiser friends
  Told of thy speed and wing untiring;
  I drank of Pleasure's honied cup,
  Nor marked thy flight, no change desiring;
  When all too late I gave thee chase,
  But found thou couldst not be o'ertaken:
  With heedless wing thou'st onward swept,
  Though hopes were crushed and empires shaken.

  Thou with the world thy flight began'st;
  Compared with thine, what were the knowledge
  Of every sage in every clime,
  The learning of the school or college?
  Thou'st seen, in all the pomp of power,
  Athens, the proudest seat of learning;
  And thou couldst tell us if thou wouldst,
  How Nero looked when Rome was burning.

  What direful sights hast thou beheld,
  As careless thou hast journied on:
  The hemlock-bowl for Athen's pride;
  The gory field of Marathon;
  The monarch crowned, the warrior plumed,
  With power and with ambition burning;
  Yet they must all have seemed to thee
  Poor pigmies on a pivot turning.

  Their pomp, their power, with thine compared,
  How blank and void, how frail and fleeting!
  Thou hast not paused e'en o'er their tombs
  To give their mighty spirits greeting;
  But onward still with untired wing,
  Regardless thou 'rt thy flight pursuing,
  Unseen, alas! till thou art past,
  While o'er our heads thy snows thou 'rt strewing.

  Oh! vainly may poor mortals strive
  With learned lore of school and college;
  Their books may teach us wisdom's rules,
  But thou alone canst teach us knowledge.
  Oh! had I earlier known thy worth,
  I had not now been left repining,
  Nor asked to weave for thee the wreath
  That on my youthful brow was shining.
  Could but again the race be mine,
  In life's young morn, I'd seek and find thee;
  I'd seize thee by thy flowing lock,
  And never more be left behind thee!




A NIGHT ON THE PRAIRIE.

BY A BUFFALO HUNTER.


While looking over my 'omnium gatherum;' the same being a drawer
containing scraps of poetry, unfinished letters, half-written editorials,
incidents of travel, obsolete briefs, with many other odds and ends that
have fallen from my brain during the last three years, but which from want
of quality in them or lack of energy in me, have failed to reach the
dignity of types and ink; I came across a diary kept while hunting buffalo
with the Sac and Fox Indians, some two hundred miles west of the
Mississippi, during the summer of 1842. Finding myself interested in
recurring to the incidents of that excursion, it occurred to me that
matter might be drawn therefrom which would not be without interest to the
public. I have therefore ventured to offer the following for publication;
it being an account of a night passed at the source of the Checauque, when
I did not deem my scalp worth five minute's purchase, and when I
cheerfully would have given ten years of an ordinary life to have been
under the humblest roof in the most desolate spot in the 'land of steady
habits.'

I have said that we were in the country of the Sioux. That our situation
may be understood, I would remark farther, that between the latter and the
confederated tribes of the Sac and Fox Indians, there has been for the
last forty years, and still exists, the most inveterate hostility; the two
parties never meeting without bloodshed. The Government of the United
States, in pursuance of that policy which guides its conduct toward the
various Indian tribes, for the preservation of peace between these two
nations, have laid out between them a strip of country forty miles in
width, denominated the 'Neutral Ground,' and on to which neither nation is
permitted to extend their hunting excursions.

On the occasion of which I write, the Sacs and Foxes, having been
disappointed in finding buffalo within their own limits, and perhaps
feeling quite as anxious to fall in with a band of Sioux as to obtain
game, had passed the 'Neutral Ground,' and were now several days' journey
into the country of their enemies.

For the last two days we had marched with the utmost circumspection; our
spies ranged the country for miles in advance and on either flank, while
at night we had sought some valley as a place of encampment, where our
fires could not be seen from a distance. Each day we had perceived signs
which indicated that small parties of Sioux had been quite recently over
the very ground we were travelling. The whites in the company, numbering
some eleven or twelve, had remonstrated with the Indians, representing to
them that they were transgressing the orders of the government, and that
should a hostile meeting take place they would certainly incur the
displeasure of their 'great father' at Washington.

Heedless of our remonstrances they continued to advance until it became
evident that the Sioux and not buffalo were their object. The truth was,
they felt themselves in an excellent condition to meet their ancient
enemy. They numbered, beside old men and the young and untried, three
hundred and twenty-five warriors, mounted and armed with rifles, many of
them veterans who had seen service on the side of Great Britain in her
last war with this country, and most of whom had served with Black Hawk in
his brief but desperate contest with the United States. Moreover, they
placed some reliance on the whites who accompanied them; all of whom,
except my friend B----, of Kentucky, one or two others and myself, were
old frontier men, versed in the arts of Indian warfare.

As for myself, I felt far from comfortable in the position in which I
found myself placed; hundreds of miles from any white settlement, and
expecting hourly to be forced into a conflict where no glory was to be
gained, and in which defeat would be certain death, while victory could
not fail to bring upon us the censure of our government. The idea of
offering up my scalp as a trophy to Sioux valor, and leaving my bones to
bleach on the wide prairie, with no prayer over my remains nor stone to
mark the spot of my sepulture, was far from comfortable. I thought of the
old church-yard amidst the green hills of New-England, where repose the
dust of my ancestors, and would much preferred to have been gathered
there, full of years, 'like a shock of corn fully ripe in its season,'
rather than to be cut down in the morning of life by the roving Sioux, and
my frame left a dainty morsel for the skulking wolf of the prairie. I
communicated my sentiments to B----, and found that his views corresponded
with mine. 'But,' said he, with the spirit of a genuine Kentuckian, 'we
are in for it, Harry, and we must fight; it will not do to let these
Indians see us show the white feather.'

It was under such circumstances, and with these feelings, that we pitched
our tents after a hard day's march, in a valley near the margin of a
little stream which uniting with others forms the Checauque, one of the
tributaries of the Mississippi. The river flowed in our front. In our
rear, and surrounding us on either side, forming a sort of amphitheatre,
was a range of low hills crowned with a grove of young hickorys. A branch
on our left, running down to the stream, separated our tents from the
encampment of our Indian allies. Our camp consisted of three tents pitched
some fifteen steps apart. B---- and myself occupied the middle one. We had
a companion, a scrub of a fellow, who forced himself upon us as we were on
the point of starting, and whom we could not well shake off. To this
genius, on account of his many disagreeable qualities, we had given the
soubriquet of '_Common Doings_.' The other whites of the party occupied
the other two tents.

We had just finished the usual routine of camp duty for the night,
'spansered' our horses, eaten our suppers, laid in a supply of fuel for
our fires, and were sitting around them smoking our pipes and listening to
the marvellous tales of an old 'Leatherstocking' of the party, whose life
had been passed between the Rocky Mountains and the Mississippi, when two
of our Indian spies came in, passing in front of our tents and across the
branch to the Indian camp. One of our party followed them to hear their
report, and soon returned with the information that the spies had seen an
encampment of Sioux, and that the Sacs and Foxes were then holding a
council as to what measures it was best to pursue. Others of our party,
who understood the Indian tongue, went across for farther information.
Mean time we remained in great anxiety, canvassing among ourselves the
probable truth of the report, and speculating on the course most proper
for us to take. Our friends soon returned, having heard the full report of
the spies as it was delivered before the chiefs in council. They had
proceeded some eight miles beyond the place of our encampment to a hill in
the vicinity of Swan Lake; from the hill they had seen a large body of
Sioux, numbering as near as they could estimate them, five or six hundred.
From the manner in which they were encamped and from other signs, they
knew them to be a 'war party;' and having made these observations, they
withdrew, concealing themselves as much as possible, and as they supposed,
without being discovered. The effect of this information upon us may
easily be imagined. We were 'in for it' sure enough! We had expected for
several days that we should meet the enemy, but to find them so near us in
such force, so far outnumbering our own, we had not anticipated.

The question now was, what were we to do? Some proposed that we should
move our camp across the branch and pitch our tent among our Indian
allies; for it was argued with much force that if our spies had been
discovered, the Sioux would follow their trail, and as it passed directly
by our tents, we should fall the first victims; that if the Sioux,
notwithstanding their superiority in numbers, should not think it prudent
to attack the main camp, they would not fail to attack, according to their
custom, the out-camps, take what scalps they could, and retreat. But there
was a strong objection to moving our camp: the Indians frequently during
the march had desired us to pitch our tents among them, but we had always
declined, preferring to be by ourselves. What would they say if we should
now break up our encampment and go among them? 'White men are cowards!
They rejected our request when all was safe, but now at the approach of
danger they come skulking among us like dogs for protection.'  No; we
could not do this; pride forbade it. We next discussed the expediency of
dividing ourselves into a watch, and keeping guard by turns through the
night. The more experienced of the party, and particularly Jamison, an old
hunter and Indian fighter, said that this would only exhaust us, and would
be of no avail; that our Indian allies had spies around the encampment in
every direction; that if they failed to perceive the approach of the enemy,
we could not discover them; that the first intimation our sentinels would
have would be an arrow through the body; that our best plan would be to
extinguish our fires, prepare our arms, lie down with them in our hands,
rely on the Indian spies for notice of the enemy's approach, and on the
first alarm make our way to the Indian camp, being careful as we approached
it to give the pass-word for the night, '_Wal-las-ki-push-eto_.' We all
finally came to this conclusion.

During the discussion, two of the party had not spoken a word; one was our
tent-mate 'Doings,' who was so completely paralyzed with fright as to be
unable to think or speak; the other was old 'Leatherstocking,' who
listened with the utmost coolness to all that was said, occasionally
expressing assent or dissent by a nod or shake of the head. I now observed
him quietly examine his rifle, draw the charge and reload; take out the
flint and replace it with a new one; he then threw himself down for the
night, his bared knife in his left hand, and his right resting on the
breech of his rifle, remarking as he composed himself to sleep, 'We must
be ready boys; there's no telling when the varmints will be upon us.'

B---- and myself prepared our arms: each of us wore a brace of pistols in
a belt; these were carefully loaded and buckled on; our rifles were next
examined and put in order; our hatchets were placed at hand, and with many
misgivings we laid ourselves down. It was some time before I could sleep,
and when I did, my repose was disturbed by dreams. How long I slept I am
unable to say, perhaps not more than an hour, when I was suddenly
awakened. I listened. The noise of the horses, of which there were several
hundred grazing in the valley, with the tinkling of the bells on their
necks, were the only sounds that at first met my ear; all else was silent.
Presently I heard a noise as if made by the stealthy tread of a man; then
a voice, or perhaps the cry of some animal. It was repeated. I heard it in
the grove, on the hill, then an answering cry on the other side of the
stream. I knew that Indians in a night-attack make signals by imitating
the cry of some animal; and the sounds I heard, though like those made by
wild beasts, seemed to me to be in reality human voices. I drew a pistol
from my belt, cocked it, and with a hatchet in my other hand, crept out of
the tent, and lying on the ground, looked cautiously around. The cries
continued at intervals, and I became more and more satisfied that they
were human voices. I felt, I _knew_ that the Sioux were about to attack
us. A thousand thoughts flashed across my mind. I thought of the home of
my childhood, my far distant kindred; a mother, sisters, brothers.
Unskilled as I was in Indian warfare, I expected to be slain. I was
alarmed; frightened perhaps, but not paralyzed. I resolved to fight to the
last, and if I _must_ die, to fill no coward's grave.

As my eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, I began to distinguish
objects; and peering beyond our line of tents, I saw on our right, between
me and the grove, three dark objects like human heads projecting out of
the grass. While I was observing them, two of them disappeared, and I
could discern the grass wave as they made their way toward our encampment.
There was no longer room for doubt. I called to B---- in a whisper; he was
on his feet and by my side in an instant, a cocked pistol in each hand. I
directed his attention to what I saw. He looked steadfastly for a moment,
then raising his eyes to the grove, exclaimed in a whisper, 'The timber is
full of Indians! I see them advancing from tree to tree; it is time for
action. I shall fall, but you may be saved; if so, let my friends in
Kentucky know that I died like a brave man. I will arouse the rest.'

He went to the tent on our left, while I remained watching the approach of
the enemy. I could see them distinctly as they moved from tree to tree. I
heard B---- call in a whisper, 'Jamison! Jamison!' Jamison came out of his
tent but without his arms. B---- told him of our danger, and directed his
attention to the Indians in the grove. As he spoke Jamison stretched out
his arms and gave a yawn, remarking, 'These Injuns are mighty unsartin
critters; there's no knowing about their motions;' crawled into his tent
again. B---- returned; neither of us spoke. We lay down and drew our
blankets over us; at length B---- said:

'Harry?'

'What?'

'Hoaxed! by thunder!'

The whole truth, which had been breaking in upon my mind by degrees, now
flashed upon me, and I raised a shout of laughter. At this instant, poor
'Doings,' who had been awake from the commencement, but who was so scared
that he had rolled himself under the eaves of the tent, and contracted
himself into a space scarcely larger than my arm, and who in his terror
would have lain still and had his throat cut without wagging a finger in
defence; this poor, miserable 'Doings' exclaimed 'Haw! haw! haw! I knew it
all the time; I never see fellows so scared!' This was too bad. However,
we had our laugh out, discussed plans for vengeance, went to sleep and had
quiet slumbers for the rest of the night.

The next morning we ascertained that the whole story about the Sioux
encampment had been fabricated for the purpose of trying our mettle, and
that all save B----, myself and 'Doings,' were in the secret. The moving
objects which I had seen in the grass were Indian dogs prowling around for
food, and the Indians in the timber existed only in our excited
imaginations.

       *       *       *       *       *

I may hereafter give an account of the _modus operandi_ of our revenge,
and of our mode of hunting the buffalo, in which we met with much success;
and of other matters of interest which fell under my observation during
the sixty days we spent with this tribe of Indians.

                                                              H. T. H.




LIFE'S YOUNG DREAM.

    'There is no Voice in Nature which says 'Return.''


  Those envious threads, what do they here,
    Amid thy flowing hair?
  It should be many a summer's day
    Ere they were planted there:
  Yet many a day ere thou and Care
    Had known each other's form,
  Or thou hadst bent thy youthful head
    To Sorrow's whelming storm.

  Oh! was it grief that blanched the locks
    Thus early on thy brow?
  And does the memory cloud thy heart,
    And dim thy spirit now?
  Or are the words upon thy lip
    An echo from thy heart;
  And is _that_ gay as are the smiles
    With which thy full lips part?

  For thou hast lived man's life of thought,
    While careless youth was thine;
  Thy boyish lip has passed the jest
    And sipped the sparkling wine,
  And mingled in the heartless throng
    As thoughtlessly as they,
  Ere yet the days of early youth
    Had glided swift away.

  They say that Nature wooeth back
    No wanderer to her arms;
  Welcomes no prodigal's return
    Who once hath scorned her charms.
  And ah! I fear for thee and me,
    The feelings of our youth
  Have vanished with the things that were,
    Amid the wrecks of truth.

  Oh! for the early happy days
    When hope at least was new!
  Ere we had dreamed a thousand dreams,
    And found them all untrue;
  Ere we had flung our life away
    On what might not be ours;
  Found bitter drops in every cup,
    And thorns on all the flowers.

  Ye who have yet youth's sunny dreams,
    Oh guard the treasure well,
  That no rude voice from coming years
    May break the enchanted spell!
  No cloud of doubt come o'er your sky
    To dim its sunny ray,
  Be careless children, while ye can,
    Trust on, while yet ye may.

_Albany, January, 1844._                                         A. R.




THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

HARRY HARSON.


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST.

In the same room from which Craig and Jones had set out on their ill-fated
errand, and at the hour of noon on the following day, the latter was
crouching in front of the fire-place, which had been so bright and cheery
the night before, but which now contained nothing except ashes, and a few
half-burned stumps, charred and blackened, but entirely extinguished. Over
these Jones bent, occasionally shivering slightly, and holding his hands
to them, apparently unconscious that they emitted no heat, and then
dabbling in the ashes, and muttering to himself. But a few hours had
elapsed since he had left that room a bold, daring, desperate man; yet in
that short time a frightful change had come over him. His eyes were
blood-red; his lips swollen and bloody, and the under one deeply gashed,
as if he had bitten it through; his cheeks haggard and hollow, his hair
dishevelled, his dress torn, and almost dragged from his person. But it
was not in the outward man alone that this alteration had taken place. In
spirit, as well as in frame, he was crushed. His former iron bearing was
gone; no energy, no strength left. He seemed but a wreck, shattered and
beaten down--down to the very dust. At times he mumbled to himself, and
moaned like one in suffering.  Then again he rose and paced the room with
long strides, dashing his hand against his forehead, and uttering
execrations. The next moment he staggered to his seat, buried his face in
his hands, and sobbed like a child.

'Tim,' said he, in a low broken voice, 'poor old Tim; I killed you, I know
I did; but blast ye! I loved you, Tim. But it's of no use, now; you're
dead, and can never know how much poor Bill Jones cared for you. No, no;
you never can, Tim. We were boys together, and now I'm alone; no one
left--no one, _no_ one!'

In the very phrenzy of grief, that succeeded these words, he flung himself
upon the floor, dashing his head and hands against it, and rolling and
writhing like one in mortal pain. This outbreak of passion was followed by
a kind of stupor; and crawling to his seat, he remained there, like one
stunned and bereft of strength. Stolid, scarcely breathing, and but for
the twitching of his fingers, motionless as stone; with his eyes fixed on
the blank wall, he sat as silent as one dead; but with a heart on fire,
burning with a remorse never to be quenched; with a soul hurrying and
darting to and fro in its mortal tenement, to escape the lashings of
conscience. Struggle on! struggle on! There is no escape, until that
strong heart is eaten away by a disease for which there is no cure; until
that iron frame, worn down by suffering, has become food for the worm, and
that spirit and its persecutor stand before their final judge, in the
relations of criminal and accuser.

A heavy step announced that some one was ascending the stairs. Jones moved
not. A loud knock at the door followed. Still he did not stir. The door
was then flung open, in no very gentle manner, for it struck the wall
behind it with a noise that made the room echo: but a cannon might have
been fired there, and Jones would not have heard it.

The person however who had thus unceremoniously opened the way to his
entrance, seemed perfectly indifferent whether his proceedings were
agreeable or otherwise. His first movement on entering the room was to
shut the door after him and lock it; his next was to look about it to see
whether it contained any other than the person of Jones. Having satisfied
himself on that score, he walked rapidly up to him and tapped him on the
shoulder.

Jones looked listlessly up at him, and then turning away, dabbled in the
ashes, without uttering a word.

'Hello! Bill Jones,' said the stranger, after waiting a moment or two in
evident surprise, 'what ails you?'

The man made no reply.

'Are you sulky?' demanded the other; 'Well, follow your own humor; but
answer me one question: where's Craig?'

Jones shuddered; and his hand shook violently. Rising up, half tottering,
he turned and stood face to face with his visiter.

'Good day to ye, Mr. Grosket,' said he, with a ghastly smile, and
extending his hand to him. 'Good day to ye. It's a bright day, on the
heels of such a night as the last was.'

'Good God! what ails you, man?' exclaimed Grosket, recoiling before the
wild figure which confronted him; and then taking his hand, he said: 'Your
hand is hot as fire, your eyes blood-shot, and your face covered with
blood. What have you been at? What ails you?'

Jones passed his hand feebly across his forehead, and then replied: 'I'm
sick at heart!'

He turned from Grosket, and again crouched upon the hearth, mumbling over
his last words, 'Sick at heart! sick at heart!'--nor did he appear to
recollect Grosket's question respecting Craig. If he did, he did not
answer it, but with his arms locked over his knees, he rocked to and fro,
like one in great pain.

'Are you ill, man, or are you drunk?' demanded Grosket, pressing heavily
on his shoulder. 'Speak out, I say: what ails you? If you don't find your
tongue, I'll find it for you.'

Jones, thus addressed, made an effort to rally, and partially succeeded;
for after a moment he suddenly rose up erect, and in a clear, bold voice,
replied:

'I'm not drunk, Mr. Grosket, but I _am_ ill; God knows what's the matter
with me. Look at me!' he continued, stepping to where the light was
strongest; 'Look at me well. Wouldn't you think I'd been on my back for
months?'

'You look ill enough;' was the blunt reply.

'Well, then, what do you want?' demanded Jones, in a peevish tone; 'why do
you trouble me? I can't bear it. Go away; go away.'

'I will, when you've answered my question. Where's Craig?'

'I don't know. He was here last night; but he went out, and hasn't been
here since.'

'Where did he go?'

Jones shook his head: 'He didn't say.'

'Was he alone?'

'No,' replied the other, evidently wincing under these questions; 'No;
there was a man with him, nigh about my size. He went with him. That's all
I know about either of them. There, there; get through with your
questions. They turn my head,' said he, in an irritable tone.

'Why did he take a stranger?' demanded Grosket, without paying the least
attention to his manner. 'You forget that I know you and he generally hunt
in couples.'

It might have been the cold of the room striking through to his very bones
that had so powerful an effect on Jones, but he shook from head to foot,
as he answered:

'Look at me! God! would you have a man out in such a night as that was,
when he's almost ready for his winding-sheet?'

Grosket's only reply was to ask another question.

'What was the name of the man who went with him?'

'I don't know.'

'What did they go to do?'

Jones hesitated, as if in doubt what answer to make, and then, as if
adopting an open course, he said: 'I've know'd you a good while, Mr.
Grosket, and you won't blab, if I tell you what I suspect, will ye? It's
only guess-work, after all. Promise me that; I know your word is good.'

Grosket paused a moment before he made the promise; and then said: 'Well,
I'll keep what you tell me to myself. Now then.'

'It was a house-breaking business,' said Jones, sinking his voice. 'They
took pistols with them; and I heard Tim tell the other one to take the
crow-bar and the glim. That's all I know. I was too much down to listen.
There; go away now. I've talked till my head is almost split. Talking
drives me mad. Go away.'

Grosket stood perfectly still in deep thought. The story might be true;
for the city was ringing with the news of the burglary, and of the death
of one of the burglars by the hands of his comrade. It was rumored too,
that the dead man had been identified by some of the officers of the
police, and that his name was Craig. It was this, taken in connection with
the facts that the attempt had been made on Harson's house; that an effort
had been made to carry off a child who lived with him, and of its being
known to Grosket that Rust had often employed these two men in matters
requiring great energy and few scruples, that had induced him thus early
to visit their haunt, to ascertain the truth of his suspicions; and to
endeavor, if possible, to ferret out the plans of their employer. The
replies of Jones, short and abrupt as they were, convinced him that his
suspicions respecting Craig were correct; but who could the other man be?

Engrossed with his own thoughts, he appeared to forget where he was and
who was present; for he commenced walking up and down the room; then
stopped; folded his arms, and talked to himself in low, broken sentences.
Again he walked to the far end of the room and stopped there.

Jones, in the mean time, to avoid farther questioning, seated himself; and
leaning his elbows on his knees, hid his face in his hand. He was
disturbed, however, by feeling himself shaken roughly by the shoulder.
'What you've just been telling me, is a lie!' said Grosket, sternly. 'You
should know me well enough not to run the risk of trifling with me. I want
the truth and nothing else. Where were _you_ last night?'

Jones looked up at him and then answered in a sullen tone: 'I've told you
once; I was here.'

Grosket went to a dark corner of the room and brought back Jones'
great-coat, completely saturated with water. 'This room scarcely leaks
enough to do that,' said he, throwing it on the floor in front of Jones.
'Ha! what's that in the pocket?'

He thrust in his hand and drew out a pistol. The hammer was down, the cap
exploded, and the inside of the muzzle blackened by burnt powder.

'Fired off!' said he. 'You told the truth. The man who went with Craig
_did_ look like you. I know the rest. Tim Craig is dead, and you shot
him.'

An expression of strange meaning crossed the face of the burglar as he
returned the steady look of his visiter without making any reply. But
Grosket was not yet done with him; for he said in a slow, savage tone:
'Now mark me well. If you lie in what you tell me, I'll hang you. Who
employed you to do this job?'

Jones eyed him for a moment, and then turned away impatiently and said, 'I
don't know what you're talking about. Don't worry me. I'm sick and half
crazy. Get away, will ye!'

'_This_ to me! to _me!_' exclaimed the other, stepping back, his eyes
flashing fire; 'you forget yourself.'

Jones rose up, his red hair hanging like ropes about his face, and his
bloodshot eyes and disfigured features giving him the look rather of a
wild beast than of a man. Shaking his finger at Grosket, he said, 'Keep
away from me to day, I say. There's an evil spell over me. Come to-morrow,
but don't push me to-day, or God knows what you may drive me to do. There,
there--go.'

Still Grosket stirred not, but with a curling lip and an eye as bright as
his own, and voice so fearfully quiet and yet stern that at another time
it might have quelled even the strong spirit of the robber, he said 'Enoch
Grosket never goes until his object is attained.'

'Then you won't go?' demanded Jones.

'No!'

Jones made a hasty step toward him, with his teeth set and his eyes
burning like coals of fire; but whatever may have been his purpose, and
from the expression of his face, there was little doubt but that it was a
hostile one, he was diverted from it by hearing a hand on the latch of the
door and a voice from without demanding admittance.

'It is Rust,' exclaimed Grosket, in a sharp whisper. He touched the
burglar on the shoulder and said in the same tone, 'I'm going in _there_.'
He pointed to a closet in a dark part of the room, nearly concealed by the
wainscotting.  Let him in, and betray me if you dare!'

'You seem to know our holes well,' muttered Jones. 'You've been here
afore.' Grosket made no reply, but hurried across the room and secreted
himself in the closet, which evidently had been constructed as a place of
concealment, either for the tenants of the room themselves, or for
whatever else it might not suit their fancy to have too closely examined.

Jones stared after him, apparently forgetting the applicant for admission,
until a renewed and very violent knocking recalled his attention to it. He
then went to the door, drew back the bolt, and walked to his seat, without
even glancing to see who came in, or whom the person was who followed so
closely at his heels. Nor did he look around until he felt his arm roughly
grasped, and a sharp stern voice hissing in his ear:

'So, so! a fine night's work you've made of it. Tim Craig is dead and the
whole city is already ringing with the news; and _you_, you're a
murderer!'

Jones started from his seat with the sudden spasmodic bound of one who has
received a mortal thrust. He stared wildly at the sharp thin face which
had almost touched his, and then sat down and said:

'Don't talk to me so, Mr. Rust; I can't bear it.'

'Ho, ho! your conscience is tender, is it? It has a raw spot that won't
bear handling, has it? We'll see to that. But to business,' said he, his
face becoming white with rage; his black eyes blazing, and his voice
losing its smoothness and quivering as he spoke.

'I've come here to fulfil my agreement; you were to get that child for me
to-day; I've come for her; where is she?'

Jones looked at him with an expression of impatience mingled with
contempt, but made him no answer.

'Tim Craig was to have gone to that house; he was to have carried her off;
he was to have her here, _here_, HERE!' said he, in the same fierce tone.
'Why hasn't he done it?'

'Because he's dead,' said Jones savagely.

'I'm glad of it! I'm glad of it!' exclaimed Rust. 'He deserved it. The
coward! _Let_ him die.'

'Tim Craig was no coward,' replied Jones, in a tone which, had Rust been
less excited, would have warned him to desist.

'Ha!' exclaimed Rust, scanning him from head to foot, as if surprised at
his daring to contradict him, 'Would you gainsay me?'

Jones returned his look without flinching, his teeth firmly set and
grating together. At last he said:

'I _do_ gainsay you; and I _do_ say, whoever calls Tim Craig a coward
lies!'

'_This_, and from _you_!' exclaimed Rust, shaking his thin finger in his
very face; '_this_ from you; _you_, a house-breaker, a thief, and last
night the murderer of your comrade. Ho! ho! it makes me laugh! Fool! How
many lives have you? One word of mine could hang you.'

'_You'll_ never hang _me_,' replied Jones, in the same low, savage tone.
'I wish you had, before that cursed job of yours made me put a bullet in
poor Tim. I wish you had; but it is too late. You wont _now_.'

Words cannot describe the fury of Michael Rust at seeing himself thus
bearded by one whom he had been used to see truckle to him, whom he
considered the mere tool of Craig, and whom he had never thought it worth
while even to consult in their previous interviews.

'Wont I? _wont_ I? Look to yourself,' muttered he, shaking his finger at
him with a slow, cautioning gesture, 'Look to yourself.'

'You're right, I _will_; I say I _will_,' exclaimed Jones, leaping up and
confronting him. 'I say I _will_; and now I do!' He grasped him by the
throat and shook him as if he had been a child.

'I might as well kill him at once,' muttered he, without heeding the
struggles of Rust. 'It's _him_ or _me_; yes, yes, I'll do it.'

Coming to this fatal conclusion, he flung Rust back on the floor and
leaped upon him. At this moment, however, the door of the closet was
thrown open, and Grosket, whom he had entirely forgotten, sprang suddenly
out:

'Come, come, this wont do!' said he; 'no murder!'

Jones made no effort to resist the jerk at his arm with which Grosket
accompanied his words, but quietly rose, and said:

'Well, he drove me to it. He may thank _you_ for his life, not _me_.'

Relieved from his antagonist, Rust recovered his feet, and turning to
Grosket said, in a sneering tone:

'Michael Rust thanks Enoch for having used his influence with his friend,
to prevent the commission of a crime which might have made both Enoch and
his crony familiar with a gallows. A select circle of acquaintance friend
Enoch has.'

Grosket, quietly, pointed to the closet and said:

'You forget that I have been there ever since you came in the room; and
have overheard every thing that passed between you and _my_ friend.'

Rust bit his lip.

'Don't let it annoy you,' continued he, 'for the most of what I heard I
knew before. I have had my eye on you from the time we parted. With all
your benevolent schemes respecting myself I am perfectly familiar. The
debt which you bought up to arrest me on; your attempt to have me indicted
on a false charge of felony; the quiet hint dropped in another quarter,
that if I should be found with my throat cut, or a bullet in my head, you
wouldn't break your heart; I knew them all; but I did not avail myself of
the law. Shall I tell you why, Michael Rust? Because I had a revenge
sweeter than the law could give.'

'Friend Enoch is welcome to it when he gets it,' replied Rust, in a soft
tone. 'But the day when it will come is far off.'

'The day is at hand,' replied Grosket. 'It is here: it is now. Not for a
mine of gold would I forego what I now know; not for any thing that is
dear in the world's eyes, would I spare you one pang that I can now
inflict.'

Rust smiled incredulously, but made no reply.

'Your schemes are frustrated,' continued Grosket. 'The children are both
found; their parentage known; _your_ name blasted. The brother who
fostered you, and loaded you with kindness will have his eyes opened to
your true character; and you will be a felon, amenable to the penalty of
the law, whenever any man shall think fit to call it down upon your head.
But this is nothing to what is in store for you.'

'Well,' said Rust, with the same quiet smile; 'please to enumerate what
other little kindnesses you have in store for me.'

'I will,' replied Grosket. '_I_ was once a happy man. I had a wife and
daughter, whom I loved. My wife is dead; what became of my child? I say,'
exclaimed he bitterly, 'what became of my child?'

'Young women will forget themselves sometimes,' said Rust, his thin lip
curling. 'She became a harlot--only a harlot.'

Grosket grew deadly pale, and his voice became less clear, as he answered:

'You're right--you're right! why shrink from the word. It's a harsh one;
but it's God's truth; she _did_--and she died.'

'That's frank,' said Rust, 'quite frank. I am a straight-forward man, and
always speak the truth. I'm glad to see that friend Enoch can bear it like
a Christian.'

A loud, taunting laugh broke from Grosket; and then he said:

'Thus much for _me_; now for yourself, Michael Rust. _You_ once had a
wife.'

Rust's calm sneer disappeared in an instant, and he seemed absolutely to
wither before the keen flashing eye which was fixed steadfastly on his.

'She lived with you two years; and then she became--shall I tell you
what?'

Rust's lips moved, but no sound came from them. Grosket bent his lips to
his ear, and whispered in it. Rust neither moved nor spoke. He seemed
paralyzed.

'But she died,' continued Grosket, 'and she left a child--a daughter;
_mine_ was a daughter too.'

Rust started from a state of actual torpor; every energy, every faculty,
every feeling leaping into life.

'That daughter is now alive,' continued Grosket, speaking slowly, that
every word might tell with tenfold force. 'That daughter now is, what you
drove my child to be, a harlot.'

'It's false as hell!' shouted Rust, in a tone that made the room ring.
'It's false!'

'It's true. I can prove it; prove it, clear as the noon-day,' returned
Grosket, with a loud, exulting laugh.

'Oh! Enoch! oh, Enoch!' said Rust, in a broken, supplicating tone, 'tell
me that it's false, and I'll bless you! Crush me, blight me, do what you
will, only tell me that my own loved child is pure from spot or stain!
Tell me so, I beseech you; _I_, Michael Rust, who never begged a boon
before--_I_ beseech you.'

He fell on his knees in front of Grosket, and clasping his hands together,
raised them toward him.

'I cannot,' replied Grosket, coldly, 'for it's as true as there is a
heaven above us!'

Rust made an effort to speak; his fingers worked convulsively, and he fell
prostrate on the floor.




THE SACRIFICE.

    'One day during the bloody executions which took place at Lyons, a
    young girl rushed into the hall where the revolutionary tribunal
    was held, and throwing herself at the feet of the judges, said:
    'There remain to me of all my family only my brothers! Mother,
    father, sister--you have butchered all; and now you are going to
    condemn my brothers. Oh! in mercy ordain that I may ascend the
    scaffold with them!' Her prayer was refused, and she threw herself
    into the Rhone and perished.'

                                                             DU BROCA.


  The judges have met in the council-hall,
  A strange and a motley pageant, all:
  What seek they? to win for their land a name
  The brightest and best in the lists of fame?
  The light of Mercy's all-hallowed ray
  To look with grief on the culprit's way?
  Nay! watch the smile and the flushing brow,
  And in that crowd what read ye now?
  The daring spirit and purpose high,
  The fiery glance of the eagle eye
  That marked the Roman's haughty pride,
  In the days of yore by the Tiber's side?
  The stern resolve of the patriot's breast,
  When the warrior's zeal has sunk to rest?
  No! Mercy has fled from the hardened heart,
  And Justice and Truth in her steps depart,
  And the fires of hell rage fierce and warm
  Mid the fitful strife of the spirit's storm.

  But a wail is borne on the troubled air:
  What victim comes those frowns to dare?
  'Tis woman's form and woman's eye,
  That Time hath passed full lightly by;
  The limner's art in vain might trace
  The glorious beauty and winning grace
  Of that fair girl; youth's sunny day
  Flings its radiance over life's changing way:
  Why has she left her princely home,
  Why to that hall a suppliant come?
  Her heart is sad with a deepening gloom,
  For Hope has found in her heart a tomb.
  With quiv'ring lip, and eye whose light
  Is faint as the moon in a cloudy night,
  And with cheek as pale as the crimson glow
  That the sunset casts on the spotless snow;
  Nerved with the strength of wild despair,
  Low at their feet she pours her prayer:

    'My home! my home! is desolate,
      For ye have slain them all,
    And cast upon the light of Love
      Death's cold and fearful pall.
    We knelt in agony to save
      My father's silver hair,
    Ye would not mark the bitter tears,
      Nor list the frantic prayer!

    'And then ye took my mother too:
      Ye must remember now
    The words that lingered on her lip,
      The grief upon her brow;
    My sister wept in bitter wo--
      Her dark and earnest eyes
    Asked for the mercy ye will seek
      In vain in yonder skies!

    'But your hearts were like the flinty rock,
      And cold as ocean's foam;
    You tore them from my clasping arms,
      And bore them from our home:
    And now my brothers ye will slay!
      But they are proud and high,
    And come with spirits brave and true,
      Your tortures to defy.

    'I will not ask from you their lives,
      I will not seek to roll
    The clouds of midnight from your hearts;
      Ye cannot touch the soul!
    But grant my prayer, and I will pray
      For you in yonder sky;
    Oh, GOD! I ask a little thing--
      I ask with them to die!'

  But the burning words fell cold and lone,
  As the sun's warm rays on a marble stone;
  Life was a curse too bitter and wild
  For the broken heart of Earth's weary child;
  And the stricken one found a self-sought grave
  'Neath the crystal light of the foaming wave.

_Shelter-Island._                                       MARY GARDINER.




THE DEATH BED.

A STRAY LEAF FROM THE PORT-FOLIO OF A 'COUNTRY DOCTOR.'

BY F. W. SHELTON.


'Bury me in the valley, beneath the willows where I have watched the
rippling waves, among the scenes of beauty which I loved so well, oh! my
friend!' exclaimed the dying youth; and as he grasped my hand his lips
moved tremblingly, tears gushed upon his wan cheeks, and an expression of
very sadness stole upon him. His looks were lingering; such as one flings
back upon some paradise of beauty which he leaves forever; some home which
childhood has endeared to him, and affection has filled with the loves and
graces. Pity touched my soul as I regarded silently that beaming
countenance, alas! so shrunken from the swelling, undulating lines of his
hilarious health; a pity such as one feels whose hopes are too
inexplicably bound up with another's, who shares his very being, and who
knows by all the sympathies of a brother's bosom that the other's
heart-strings are snapping. _Animę dimidium meę!_--beautiful expression of
the poet, comprehended less while life unites, than when death severs. It
is only when gazing on the seal which has been set, we inquire 'Where is
the spirit?' and struggle in vain to understand that great difference;
when the smiles which shed their sunshine have rapidly vanished, and the
voice we loved has died away like the music of a harp; when that which was
light, joy, wit, eloquence, has departed with the latest breath; when, in
short, we are awakened from our revery by the clods falling on the coffin,
and the mourners moving away; it is then that the soul, diminished of its
essence, flits away with a strange sense to its unjoyous abode, as a bird
would return to its lonely nest.

There never existed one who more lived and moved, and had his spiritual
being in the affections; a sensitive nature wooed into life by the
kindness of the faintest breath, but killingly crushed by the footsteps of
the thoughtless or the cruel. For such a one, life is well deserving of
the epithet applied to it by the poet Virgil: _dulcis vita_, sweet life.
It is not a vulgar sensuality, a Lethean torpor; the triumph of the
grosser nature over the eternal principle within. It is already a
separation of the carnal from the spiritual; a refinement of fierce
passions; a present divorce from a close and clinging alliance; a
foretaste of the waters of life; in short, the very essence and devotion
of a pure religion. Would it seem strangely inconsistent that a being of
so sweet a character as I shall describe him, my poor young friend
declared, with a gush of the bitterest tears, that he _could_ not go into
the dark valley, for he loved life with an inconceivable, passionate love?
His was the very agony and pathos of the dying Hoffman, when almost with
his latest breath, he alluded to 'the sweet habitude of being.' But it was
only, thanks be to GOD! a short defection, a momentary clouding of that
bright faith which was destined soon to see beyond the vale. His tears
ceased to flow, glistened a moment, and then passed away as if they had
been wiped by some gentle hand.

He leaned upon a soft couch, so very pale and haggard that his hour seemed
very near. Costly books strewed his table; pictures and many exquisite
things were scattered about with lavish hand; for wealth administered to
refined luxury, and affection crowned him with blessings which gold can
never buy. A mother hid from him her bitter tears, and spoke the words of
cheerfulness; sisters pressed around him with the poignant grief an only
brother can inspire; a beautiful betrothed betokened to him in
irrepressible tears her depth and purity of love. Letters came to him
hurried on the wings of friendship, and impressed on all their seals with
sentiments which awakened hope. Youth and beauty hovered around him with
their unintermitted care, and Age sent up its fervent prayers to heaven.
Oh! who but the ungrateful would not love a life so filled with
blandishments and crowned with blessings? Who could see all these receding
without a sigh, or feel the pressure of that kiss of love as pure as if it
had its origin in Heaven? But with the finest organization of intellectual
mind, he had been accustomed to look at all things in the light of poetry.
For one so constituted the pleasures which are in store are as
inexhaustible as the works or mercies of his God. Not an hour which did
not present some new phase of undiscovered beauty. He revelled in the
beams of the morning; the rising sun was never a common object, nor its
grandeur ever lost upon a soul so conscious of the sublime. For all beauty
in nature he found a correspondent passion in the soul; and intoxicated
alike with the music of birds or the perfume of flowers, found no
weariness in a life whose current was like the living spring, pure,
perennial and delightful.

To be so susceptible of pleasure, I would be willing to encounter all the
keenness of pangs suffered by such natures. For such, the rational
delights of a year are crowded into a day, an hour; and the ignorant
reader of their obituary sighs mournfully, computing their lives by a
false reckoning. Yet after all, we have been disposed to regard the death
of the young as something unnatural; the violent rending asunder of soul
and body; the penalty enacted of a life artificial in its modes and
repugnant to nature. As Cicero has beautifully expressed it, it is like
the sudden quenching of a bright flame; but the death of the virtuous Old
is as expected, as free from terror as the sunset; it is the coming of a
gentle sleep after a long and weary day.

Travers was in the very gush and spring-tide of his youth; yet crowned as
he was with blessings, and every attribute for their most perfect
enjoyment, the true secret of his too fond desire to live, was that _he
loved_:

                       'He loved but one,
  And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his.'

In her the poetry of his life centred; and as a river is swollen by divers
rills, and tributary streams, so all the thoughts and passions of his soul
hurried with a pure and rapid tide to mingle and be lost in one. But
illness, and the long looking at death, and above all, the Christian's
hope, enable us one by one to break off the dearest ties, and to renounce
whatever we most love on earth. And so my young friend in good time
emerged from the cloud which obscured his prospects, and saw clearly
beyond the vale. It is not long since, being well assured that his fate
was inevitable, he expressed a desire, which he carried into execution, to
visit once more his well-loved haunts, and take a solemn farewell of them
all. As one grasps the hand of a friend at parting, he looked his last at
things which were inanimate. He rambled in the deep, dark groves whither
he had so often gone in health, to enjoy their Gothic grandeur, to breathe
the spirit of the religion they inspire, or to murmur in their deepest
shades the accents of his pure and passionate love. He inscribed his name
for the last time upon the smooth bark of a tree; then leaving them
forever, as he emerged into the gay meadows, he turned to me with tears
and said:

  'Ye woods, and wilds, whose melancholy gloom
  Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth
  The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart!'

He clambered the steep hill-side, and sinking exhausted beneath a smitten
tree, enjoyed the picturesqueness of the scene; the meadows, the streams,
the pasture-grounds, the dappled herds, the sereneness of the summer
skies, cleft by the wing of the musical lark, in all their purity of blue.
He sat beside the sea-shore, and watched the big billows breaking and
bursting at his feet; and as he looked where the waters and the sky met
together in the far horizon, he exclaimed, 'Now indeed do I long to fly
away!' Then he returned to his pillow, never to go forth again. 'I shall
die,' he said, 'when the season is in its prime and glory; when the fields
are green and the trees leafy; and the sunlight shall shimmer down through
the branches where the birds sing over my grave.' Then casting a look at
his books, where they stood neatly arranged on the well-filled shelves, he
lamented that he had not time to garner half the stores of a beautiful
literature; to satisfy his perpetual thirst; to drink to the full at the
'pure wells of English undefiled.' There were the Greek poets, whom he
would have more intimately cherished, (he had been lately absorbed in the
sublimity of the 'Prometheus Vinctus;') there was the great master and
anatomizer of the human heart, who knew how to detail the springs of
action common to all ages, the paragon of that deep learning which is not
derived from books, but gleaned by his genius from all nature with a rare
intuition, and with an incomprehensible power of research. In him what
mines of instruction, what sources of undiscovered delight, what
philosophy yet to be grappled with, to be laid to the heart! Charles Lamb
has with a quaint melancholy depicted the pain of parting from his books,
and from the indefinable delights laid up in each dear folio. Yet after
all, what is the literature of one age but the reproduction, the
remoulding, the condensation of the literature of another; the loss and
destruction of its waste ore, but the re-setting of its gems, and the
renewed investiture of all its beauties. There is no glowing thought, no
exquisite conception, no sublime and beautiful idea, which is not
imperishable as the mind itself, and which shall not be carried on from
age to age, or if destroyed or lost upon the written page, revived by some
happy coincidence of intellectual being, and perpetuated and enjoyed, here
or hereafter, wherever mind exists. A communion like this will be a
communion of spirits. A finer organization, expanded faculties shall
rapidly consume the past; but oh, the future! what glories are to be
crowded into its immensity? How shall knowledge be commensurate with the
stars, or wander over the universe? Now bring me the written Revelation,
the written word. It clasps within its volume all excellencies, all
sublimities of speech; secrets which could not be developed by reason, nor
found in the arcana of human wisdom. Henceforth this shall be my only
companion, and its promises shall light my passage over the grave.'

I marked the lustrous beaming of his eye, and from that time he looked at
all things on the 'bright side.' His very love could think upon its object
without a tear, and look forward to a pure and eternal re-union. At last
the hour of dissolution came. I knew it by its unerring symptoms; yet
still I listened to his passionate, poetic converse. It was for the last
time; I was in the chamber of death. What observer can mistake it; the
darkened windows, the stillness, the grouping, the subdued sobs, the awful
watchfulness for the identical moment when a lovely and intellectual
spirit breaks its bonds, as if the strained vision could detect the
spiritual essence. What a heart-sickness comes over those who love! What a
change in the appearance of all things! The very sun-light is
disagreeable, the very skies a mockery; the very roses unlovely. We look
out of the casement, and see the external face of nature still the same;
how heartless, how destitute of sympathy, now appears the whole world
without, with the home, that inner world! How can those birds sing so
sweetly on the branches; how can the flowers bloom as brightly as ever;
how can those children play so gleefully; how can yon group laugh with
such unconcern! He is an only son. Though wan, and wasted in all his
lineaments, his pure brow, his gentle expression, tell that he was worthy
to be loved. Can no human power restore him to the arms of a fond mother?
It is in vain! The spirit flutters upon his lips; it has departed. But it
has left behind it a token; a clear, bright impress; a smile of
undissembled love and purity; an expression beaming with the last
unutterable peace; the graces which were so winning upon earth, but which
shall attain their perfection in heaven.




FREEDOM'S BEACON.

    'To-day, to-day it speaks to us! Its future auditories will be the
    generations of men, as they rise up before it and gather round it'

                                                              WEBSTER.


  'To-day it speaks to us!'
    Of 'the times that tried men's souls,'
  When hostile ships rode where yon bay
    Its deep blue waters rolls:
  When the war-cloud dark was lowering
    Portentous o'er the land;
  When the vassal troops of Britain came
    With bayonet, sword and brand.

  'To-day it speaks to us!'
    Of brave deeds nobly done,
  When patriot hearts beat high with hope,
    Ere Freedom's cause was won:
  Of the conflict fierce, where fell
    New-England's valiant men,
  Who waved their country's banner high,
    Though warm blood dyed it then!

  And will its voice be still
    When the thousands of to-day,
  Who have come like pilgrim-worshippers,
    From earth shall pass away?
  Oh no! 'the potent orator'
    To future times shall tell
  Where PRESCOTT, BROOKS, and PUTNAM fought,
    Where gallant WARREN fell.

  'Twill speak of these, and others--
    Of brave men, born and nurst
  In stormy times, on Danger's lap.
    Who dared Oppression's worst:
  Of Vernon's chief, and he who came
    Across the Atlantic flood,
  To offer to the patriot's GOD
    A sacrifice of blood.

  Long as the 'Bay State' cherishes
    One thought of sainted sires,
  Long as the day-god greets her cliffs,
    Or gilds her domes and spires;
  Long as her granite hills remain
    Firm fixed, so long shall be
  Yon Monument on Bunker's height
    A beacon for the free!




A WINTER TRIP TO TRENTON FALLS.

IN THREE SCENES.


SCENE FIRST.

Morning; eight on the clock. BILLING'S HOTEL, Trenton. Outside, a clear
bright sun glancing down through an atmosphere sparkling with frost, upon
as fine a road for a sleigh-ride as ever tempted green-mountain boys and
girls for a moonlight flit. Inside, a well-furnished breakfast-table,
beef-steak, coffee, toast, etc., etc. On the one side of it your
correspondent; serious, as if he considered breakfast a thing to be
attended to. He is somewhat, as the lady on the other side of the table
says, _somewhat_ in the 'sear leaf,' by which name indeed she is pleased
to call him; but there is enough of spring in her, to suffice for all
deficiencies in him. Like the morning, she is a _little_ icy, but
sunshiny, sparkling, exhilarating, thoughtful, youthful--and decided. She
takes no marked interest in the breakfast.

'Sear leaf!' Madam, say on.

'I wish to go to the Falls.'

'To what!'

'To the Falls--to Trenton Falls.'

He drops his knife and fork. 'Whew! what! in winter?--in the snow?--on the
ice?'

'Certainly; that is just the season.'

'Crazy! You were there in the summer----'

'I know it; every one goes there in summer. I must see them now. There's
no time like it; in their drapery of snow and ice; in the sternness and
solitude, the wild grandeur of winter!'

'How you run on! You'll miss the cars at Utica.'

'I don't care.'

'You'll be a day later in New-York.'

'I don't care. I must see them in their hoary head.'

'You wish to see if they look as well in gray hairs as I do, perhaps.'

'Yes.'

'You really must go?'

'Yes.'

'You are a very imperious young lady; and allow me to say, that although
some young gentlemen----'

Lady, interrupting him: 'Shall I ring the bell?' She rings it. Enter
landlord. She orders the horse and cutter.


SCENE SECOND.

Enter landlord: 'All ready, Sir.'

'Will you allow me to ask if your feet are warmly clad, Madam?'

'I am ready for the ascent of Mont Blanc, or a ramble with a hunter upon
the shore of Hudson's Bay.'

'Very well; now for the cutter.'

'Landlord, just step round, if you please, and put that buffalo-robe a
little more closely about the lady. Hold fast, hostler! That horse likes
any thing better than standing still.'

'Ay, ay, Sir.'

'Now we are ready. Let go! Away we dash; 'on for the Falls!' Gently, my
good horse, gently round this corner; now 'go ahead!' How do you like my
steed, Madam?'

'A rein-deer could not transact this little business better.'

'Is not this a glorious morning?'

'Vivifying to the utmost! How far we fail of becoming acquainted with the
face of nature, when we only come to look upon it in summer! It is as if
one should only look upon the human face in the hues of youth, and never
upon the gray head; on the brow where high thoughts have left their
impress; on the face which deeper and sterner knowledge, research,
patience, have made eloquent, while stealing away the rose. As for me,
though I am but a girl, I like to see sometimes an old man; one who in the
trial-hour of life has kept his integrity; and when the snows of age fall
on him, he gently bends beneath their weight, like those old cedars yonder
by the way-side, beneath their weight of snow. Wherever the eye can pierce
their white vesture, all is still deep spring-green beneath; unchanged at
heart--strong and true. So I like to look on you, Sere Leaf.'

'Thank you! You have a gift at compliments.'

'Summer reminds one of feeling and Lalla Rookh; Winter; of intellect and
Paradise Lost.'

'How your voice rings in this clear air! Do you know what Dean Swift says
a sleigh-ride is like? 'Sitting in the draft of a door with your feet in a
pail of cold water!''

'Abominable! libellous! Exhilaration and comfort are so blended in me
that---- But is not that the house?'

'Ay; here we are! Smoke from the chimney; some one is there to welcome us,
no doubt. Gently, my Bucephalus, through this gate! There comes the
landlord. Treat my horse well, if you please; we are going to the Falls.'


SCENE THIRD.

'Madam, are you ready for the woods?'

'Quite. How still the air is! Why don't you thank me for insisting on
coming? You have no gratitude. There's not two inches of snow on the
ground. It all seems piled upon these grand old trees. There! see that
tuft of it falling and now spreading into a cloud of spangles in the
sun-light which streams down by those old pines. Hark! the roar of waters!
The sound seems to find new echoes in these snow-laden boughs, and lingers
as if loth to depart.'

'This way, Madam; the trees are bent too low over the path to allow a
passage there. We are near the bank which overlooks the first fall. Take
my arm; the brink may be icy. Lo! the abyss!'

'Magnificent! What a rush of waters! How the swollen stream foams and
rages!'

'And see! the pathway under the shelving rock where we passed in summer is
completely colonnaded by a row of tall ice pillars; gigantic,
symmetrical--fluted, even. What Corinthian shaft ever equalled them! What
capital ever rivalled the delicacy or grace of those ice-and-hemlock
wreaths about their summits!'

'And see those pines, rank above rank, higher and higher; stately and
still and snow-robed like tall centinels! Perhaps, Sear Leaf, the Old
Guard might have stood thus in the Russian snows over NAPOLEON, when he
bivouacked on the hill-side, and sought rest while his spirit was as
wildly tossed as the waters that dash beneath us.'

'Yes, Lady; or it may be that these trees in their perpetual green, in
their calmness and dignity, may be emblematic of the way in which the
angels who watch on earth look down on man. Perfect rest on perfect
unrest.'

'Ah! you grow gloomy.'

'Took I not my hue from you? On, then, for the higher fall!'

'These trees seem to have increased in stature since the summer we were
here. As we proceed, the snow lies thicker on them, and the branches seem
closer locked; the roof overhead more complete. How still the woods are!
Our very foot-fall is noiseless.'

Influenced by the scene, they pass on in silence along the path which
leads round the foot of the cone-like hill toward the cottage by the
higher Falls, whose deep roar now breaks upon the ear, and rolls through
the motionless forest. Thus then the Lady to Sear Leaf:

'Has GOD any other temple like this?'

'Never a one, reared by any hand save His!'

'What organ ever rolled so deep a bass through arches so grand! See how
the sunlight glances amid the gnarled branches of the roof, and here and
there falls through on the floor below; making those low icy forms look
like the shrubs of the valley of diamonds in the eastern story. Just so it
is that the light of truth struggles through entangled and dark mazes of
human error, and here and there illuminate some humble mind with its pure
ray; while others, tall and strong and haughty, like those old trees, are
left darkened.'

'You have a noble nature, and should be nobly mated. But here we are upon
the brow of the hill which leads to the cottage. The snow is deeper here:
gently, now; a slide down this bank might check even _your_ enthusiasm.
Take my arm; there--so; safe at the bottom! Let us go forward upon the
platform of the cottage over the Falls. No bench? Well, sit upon my
cloak.'

'No, I won't.'

'You must. There; be _pleased_ to sit and rest. What a gorgeous display of
frost-work and flashing light on fantastic forms of ice! How the spray
rises and waves and changes its hues in the sun! And the trees, how
delicately each sprig of the evergreens is covered with a dress so white
and shining 'as no fuller on earth could whiten them.''

'Even so, Sear Leaf; And I love to think that the same one who wove the
glorious dress to which you refer, to gladden Peter, made this dazzling
drapery, and gave us eyes to look upon it. It recalls to my mind the song
of the Seraphim: 'The whole earth is full of thy glory!''

'Did they not, Lady, sing of a moral glory?'

'No; decidedly no. There was no moral glory in the earth when they sang
that song. Even the chosen people of GOD are then and there denounced as
having abandoned Him. No; it was the glory of the works of His hands, such
as we look upon this day, which elicited their praise.'

'I believe your exegesis is right. The scene is glorious. Summer in all
her loveliness has no dress like this. She has no hues equal to the play
of colors on these walls and columns of ice, extending far as the eye can
reach down the ravine, and towering in more than colossal grandeur. The
water is in treble volume, and force and voice; and as it rolls its white
folds of spotless foam down the valley, it reminds one of the great white
throne of the Revelations, and this wavy foam the folds of the robe that
filled the temple.'

'It is inexpressibly, oppressively beautiful, Sear Leaf!'

'Speaking of Revelation, how accurate is the description in Manfred of
this scene!'

'Let me hear it:'

  'It is not noon; the sun-bow's rays still arch
  The torrent with the many hues of heaven,
  And roll the sheeted silver's waving column
  O'er the crags headlong perpendicular,
  And fling its lines of foaming light along
  And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail,
  The giant steed to be bestrode by Death,
  As told in the apocalypse.'

'Well, Madam, why are you silent? Shall we go?'

'No. I could stay here till nightfall. I was thinking of the lines
succeeding those you have repeated:

                      ----'No eyes
  But mine now drink the sight of loveliness,''

'Am I nobody?'

'We are alone here. How many of the light of heart, in youth and strength
and beauty, climbed these rocks, shouted in these old woods, and gathered
the summer flowers along these banks--and passed away! Where are they now!
Some who wrote their names in the traveller's book in this cottage, have
them now written by others on their tombstone. One I knew well, who, full
of health and beauty, passed up this wild ravine, who has faded like the
flowers she culled, and is now in her father's house, to pass in a few
more days to heaven. And of all the rest, did we know their history, what
a picture would it give of life!'

'You are thoughtful for one so young.'

'Are not twenty years enough to make one a moment thoughtful? Tell me now,
thou of the gray head, of what art _thou_ thinking?'

'Of earth's fairest scene, blent with her fairest daughter.'

'Bravo! For what fair lady on your native mountains did you frame that
compliment twenty years ago?'

'Madam!'

'Well?'

'It is time to return.'

                                                              G. P. T.




THE RUINS OF BURNSIDE.


  Sadly, amid this once delightful plain,
    Stern ruin broods o'er crumbling porch and wall,
  And shapeless stones, with moss o'ergrown, remain
    To tell, Burnside, the story of thy fall:
  These ancient oaks, although decaying, green,
  Like weary watchers, guard the solemn scene.

  Where cowslip cup and daisy sweetly bloomed,
    Hemlock and fern, in rank luxuriance spread;
  Where rose and lily once the air perfumed,
    Wild dock and nettle sprout, no fragrance shed:
  And here no more the throstle's mellow lay
  Awakes with gladsome song the jocund day.

  O'er yon church wall the ivy creeps, as fain
    To shield it from thy withering touch, Decay;
  No pastor ever more shall there explain
    The sacred text, nor with his hearers, pray
  To the Eternal Throne for grace divine;
  Nor sing His praise, nor taste the bread and wine.

  And here of yore the parish school-house stood,
    Where flaxen-pated boys were taught to read;
  At merry noon, in wild unfettered mood,
    They rushed with boisterous glee to stream or mead;
  The care-worn teacher homeward wends his way,
  And freer feels than his free boys at play.

  Yon roofless cot, which still the alders shade,
    While all around is desolate and sere,
  Perchance the dwelling of some village maid,
    Who fondly watched her aged parents here;
  And with her thrifty needle, or her wheel,
  Earned for the lowly three the scanty meal.

  Close by yon smithy stood the village inn,
    Where farmers clinched each bargain o'er a glass;
  And oft, amid mirth's unrestricted din,
    Would Time with softer foot, and swifter pass.
  The husband here his noisy revel kept,
  While by her lonely hearth the good wife wept.

  At lazy twilight, 'neath yon ancient elm,
    The village statesmen met in grave debate,
  And sagely told, if at their country's helm,
    How bravely they would steer the ship of state
  From treacherous quicksands or from leeward shore,
  And all they said, betrayed their wondrous lore.

  I've seen the thoughtless rustic pass thee by;
    In thee, perhaps, his ancestors were bred,
  And, at my question, point without a sigh,
    Where calmly rest thy unremembered dead;
  I asked thy fate, and, as he answered, smiled,
  'Thus looked these ruins since I was a child.'

  Methinks, Burnside, I see thee in thy prime,
    When thou wert blessed with innocent content,
  Thy robust dwellers, prodigal of time,
    Yet still with cheerful heart to labor went;
  Nor envied lordly pomp, with courtly train,
  Of empty rank and fruitful acres vain.

  Methinks I see a summer evening pass,
    When thou wert peopled, and in sinless glee
  Methinks the lusty ploughman and his lass
    Dance with unmeasured mirth, enraptured, free,
  While seated from the joyous throng apart,
  The blind musician labors at his art.

  Though fancy, wayward as the vagrant wind,
    May picture scenes of unambitious taste,
  Yet vainly now, we look around to find
    Thy early beauty mid this dreary waste;
  Unmourned, unmissed, thus in thy fallen state,
  Thou art an emblem of the common fate!

  Before the stern destroyer all shall bow,
    And sweet Burnside, like thine, 'twill be my lot
  To lie a ruin, tenantless and low,
    By friends unmentioned, and by foes forgot:
  As earth's uncounted millions I shall be--
  No mortal think, no record speak of me!

                                                     KENNETH ROOKWOOD.




CORONATION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH.

BY THE LATE WILLIAM ABBOTT.


There is one great and peculiar characteristic in all the movements of
JOHN BULL. A more gullible epitome of the human race does not exist. Let
the case be right or wrong, only apply to him an inflammatory preparation,
through the medium of a little exaggerated truth, and his frame is
prepared to receive the largest dose of monstrous improbabilities that can
possibly be administered; and till he has had his 'full swing' in the
expression of his outraged feelings and boiling indignation, you might as
easily attempt to check the mighty torrent of Niagara. John, however, is a
free agent, and on the truest principles of freedom will hear but one side
of the question as long as his prejudices continue; and after all, I
believe it may fairly be put down to an honest impulse in favor of the
oppressed, and a determination that no man, however elevated in rank,
shall be screened from that equal justice which England delights in
according. But the scales of justice, though equally balanced in the
courts, get so bruised and bespattered in the minds of the fickle
multitude, that time alone will bring them to their proper equilibrium.
Let us travel back to the impeachment of the DUKE OF YORK, in the case of
the celebrated MRS. CLARK. To attempt to palliate the acts of His Royal
Highness was to commit an overt act of treason against the sovereign
people; to admit his indiscretions, but deny his guilty participation, or
even knowledge of the peculations committed in his name, would expose one
to the reputation of being either a fool or a madman. The sage counsellors
of the city, those bright constellations immortalized in all ages, not
only set the noble example of awarding the freedom of the city to the
immortal Colonel Wardle for his wholesale calumnies, but services of plate
poured in from all parts; and even a portion of the legislators of Great
Britain were offering up their humble adoration at the shrine of an
accomplished courtezan. What was the result? Reflection gradually
triumphed; all the gross and filthy exaggerations were sifted through the
dirty channels which had given rise to them; a sober judgment at length
was given; and the Duke, though not freed from the responsibility of
having been betrayed into great errors, was honorably and universally
acquitted of all intentional wrong. From that moment a more popular prince
was not in existence; and with the exception of those human infirmities
'which flesh is heir to,' few men descended to the grave more really
beloved. The chief of the gang of persecutors, Colonel Wardle, shrunk into
miserable retirement, and died 'unwept, unhonored, and unsung.'

This, however, was nothing when compared with the mighty fever of
excitement produced in the public mind by the arrival of QUEEN CAROLINE in
England. Here was political diet to satisfy the cravings of all parties; a
stepping-stone to popularity in which all ranks participated. The peer,
the lawyer, the church-warden, down to the very skimmings of the parish;
sober rational people; the class so honorably prized in England, the
middle class, also became enthusiasts in the cause of the 'most virtuous
Queen that ever graced these realms.' The independent voters of
Westminster; the illustrious class of donkey-drivers; the retailers of
cats'-meat; all, all felt a noble indignation at the treatment of 'KEVEEN
CAROLINE.' Days that if allotted to labor would have increased the
comforts of their homes and families, were freely sacrificed to
processions in honor of Her Majesty. Addresses poured in from every parish
in the vast metropolis; representatives of virtuous females were hired,
all dressed in white--sweet emblem of their purity! Perhaps England was
never nearer the brink of engulphing ruin. The high Tory aristocracy
almost stood alone at this momentous period. The public sentiment took but
one tone at the theatres; and 'GOD save the QUEEN' was continually called
for. At Covent-Garden and Drury-Lane an occasional struggle was made
against the popular cry, but it was speedily drowned in clamor. The trial
commenced, and an unfortunate witness appeared on behalf of the crown, who
obtained the universal cognomen of '_Non mi Ricordo_.' This added fuel to
the fire; and the irritation of the public mind was roused into phrenzy by
the impression that perjured witnesses were suborned from foreign
countries to immolate the Queen upon the altar of vengeance. If the
Queen's counsel had been satisfied with allowing the evidence for the
prosecution to remain uncontradicted, and suffered the case to stand upon
its own merits, Her Majesty must have been acquitted; but 'by your own
lips I will condemn you' was made too manifest in the defence. The
division left so small a majority, that ministers wisely abandoned any
farther prosecution of the case. I heard most of the speeches of the
defence; and it was curious to observe the different modes of argument
adopted. BROUGHAM was an advocate, pleading eagerly a doubtful cause;
DENMAN was the enthusiastic defender of a Queen conscious of her
innocence, and setting all personal considerations at defiance. The public
feeling, no longer fed by an opposing power, calmly settled down, and men
began to wonder at the cause of their phrenzy. The innocence of the Queen
did not appear so manifest, as the unwise and heartless treatment she
experienced. 'A widowed wife, a childless mother;' these were powerful
enough to excite the deepest sympathy; and certainly a much harder lot
could not have befallen the humblest of her sex. Theatres are very
commonly the touchstones by which one may discover the bearing of the
public mind; and Her Majesty, by way of proving it, visited all the minor
theatres, which were densely crowded upon each attendance. A play was then
commanded at the two Theatres Royal. The effect produced at Drury-Lane I
do not recollect; but it is certain that the announcement at Covent-Garden
reduced rather than increased the receipts. The pit was but moderately
attended, and the boxes nearly deserted. This was a touchstone from which
there was no escaping; and it was really a mortifying scene to witness the
utter neglect with which majesty was received. But alas! the bitter cup of
mortification was to be drained to the very dregs; and the Queen's own
rashness, or the bad advice of wrong-headed counsellors, hastened the
catastrophe.

A short period had elapsed, when the public attention was gradually
directed toward THE CORONATION. The court papers teemed with descriptions
of the expected magnificence. The length of time that had intervened
between the coronation of George III. and the intended pageant of George
IV., excited all the feeling of novelty. The known magnificence of the
King, his undisputed taste, and his gallant, princely bearing, all kept
attention on the _qui vive_. The unfortunate Queen, who obstinately
rejected all compromise, remained in the country; and like an ignis
fatuus, disturbed the serenity of men's minds, and kept alive a feeling of
anxiety. Mr. Harris, the manager and one of the proprietors of
Covent-Garden, was gifted with a tact always ready to take advantage of
scenes of passing interest. He lost no time in reviving the second part of
Henry IV., with all the splendor of the coronation. The champion on this
occasion excited much more interest than all the beauties of SHAKSPEARE,
and the theatre was nightly crowded to suffocation. The whole company of
performers paraded in the procession; and though a member of the peerage,
I cannot exactly call to mind the title I bore; which, however, with my
accustomed good fortune, I exchanged for a real character at the real
coronation. Having the honor of being known most particularly to the Earl
of Glengall, he with the greatest kindness made me his page upon that
memorable occasion. This certainly was a very distinguished mark of his
friendship, for only one Esquire was allotted to each peer, and the
greatest interest was made to obtain those appointments.

The eventful morning came; and London presented at day-break crowds of
carriages of every description, and its floating population pouring in
dense masses to every point that possessed the slightest degree of
interest. Lord Glengall, in order to avoid the misery of passing through
crowded streets, and of being every moment impeded in his course, engaged
apartments in Lambeth, at Godfrey and Jule's, the boat-builders, where he
slept the night preceding. His lordship had appointed me to breakfast with
him there, at six o'clock on that eventful morning; I was resolved to be
in time, and at half past two, A. M., I left my home and fell in with a
line of carriages on my way toward Westminster bridge. I found that many
of them had been there from twelve the preceding night; peers and
peeresses in their robes, gently moving, not hastening, to the desired
spot. After waiting some two hours with exemplary patience, and finding my
case entirely hopeless, I wisely took the precaution of driving to the
water-side at Chelsea, for the purpose of procuring a boat. As it is
possible that some of the distinguished artists of the day may wish to
convey my appearance to posterity, I will give a description of my dress;
and I shall also feel greatly obliged, if at the same time they will
select the best-looking portrait of me for the likeness: a scarlet tunic,
embroidered with gold-thread; a purple satin sash, with a deep gold
fringe; a ruff _ą la Elizabeth_; white satin pantaloons; shoes with
crimson rosettes; black velvet hat and feathers. My hair, not naturally
curling, had been put in graceful _papillote_ the preceding evening. As I
write in the reign of Queen VICTORIA, the reader will readily believe that
people are not much in the habit of walking about the streets in such a
costume. Imagine therefore my arrival at the watermen's landing very soon
after five o'clock in the morning; a splendid sun pouring, if not
absolutely a flood of light, yet its lovely beams upon my person. Crowds
of little girls and boys instantly gathered on the spot, receiving me with
small voices but loud huzzahs, as I descended from the carriage. A boat
was immediately ordered; but as there were several at the landing, all but
the one engaged naturally felt the cruelty of not being permitted to come
in for their share of extortion on such an occasion.

'I say, Sir,' said one of the unwashed, 'them's a pretty pair of red
ribbands in your shoes; I want just such a pair for my little 'un at
home.'

I knew there was only one way of dealing with them; I therefore put on one
of my blandest smiles, and gently replied: 'Well, my good fellow, if you
will give me your address, I will send you a pair to-morrow.' This settled
the affair in good humor, and I was suffered to reach the boat without
farther annoyance. We had put into the stream but a short distance, when I
encountered a boat-full of roysterers; for old father Thames was thickly
studded on this occasion with boats of all classes; when one turned to
another in the boat and cried out in the most lugubrious accents, which
did not fail to excite shouts of laughter:

'I say, Bill, is that 'ere feller a man or a voman?'

I thought now I had fairly passed my ordeal and might go on in peace; but
no; we were obliged to pull in near shore, as we were rowing against tide.
Milbank was crowded, and from the midst of the polite assemblage a gentle
female voice cried out:

'My eyes! Tom! if there isn't one of Astley's riders!'

I at length arrived at my place of appointment, and had a good hearty
laugh at breakfast over my little annoyances. While engaged in that
interesting meal, the shouts of the people passed across the water. It was
occasioned by the arrival of the Queen, who was refused admittance to the
Abbey. Almost all parties blamed her for the attempt, nor did she produce
the sensation she had evidently calculated upon. It was like trying to
renew a lost game, when all interest had subsided. It was the final blow
to all her ambitious aspirations, which speedily ended, where all our
vanities must end, in the silent grave. I wish it to be perfectly
understood that I have no idea of entering into a rivalry with Hume, in
giving another History of England; but as these events of stirring
interest passed within my own time, and of which I was a close observer, I
trust the introduction will not appear misplaced; taking into
consideration that I profess to give my general reminiscences, and not
simply to confine them to my profession. Perhaps it would be wise on my
part to drop a veil over the gorgeous spectacle; for like a visit to the
Falls of Niagara, the most enlarged description a prudent person ought to
indulge in, would be simply, 'I have seen the Falls;' so if I were to show
my prudence, I should say, 'I saw the Coronation.' But how is it possible
to refrain from giving expression, however slight and sketchy, to scenes
of such unexampled magnificence?

We crossed the river at seven o'clock, and had the advantage of passing
through the private residence of one of the principal officers of the
House of Commons, and marched on to Westminster Hall without impediment. I
had a distinct ticket for the Abbey where I had no duty to perform; and
indeed throughout the day it was purely nominal. I had therefore all the
advantages of passing and repassing at my own will and discretion, and of
paying visits to the Palace-Yard to different friends who had secured
places to witness the procession. On first entering that most magnificent
of halls, it was impossible not to be struck with its gigantic proportions
and superb embellishments. Galleries were erected for the peeresses,
foreign ambassadors, and the most distinguished visitors. Admirable
arrangements were also made for that portion of the public who had been so
fortunate as to procure a Lord Chamberlain's ticket. Costume also was
strictly attended to here, no gentleman being admitted save in full
court-suit or military uniform; and the ladies of course shone in all the
splendor that gave grace to their lovely forms, and added a native lustre
to all the artificial aids which gave such light and brilliancy to the
glowing scene.

The monotony of the early part of the morning was relieved by the absurd
evolutions of the gentlemen from the cinque-ports who had the privilege of
carrying the Canopy of the Cloth of Gold over His Majesty. If truth may be
told on state occasions, it must be said that they did not perform their
movements with much grace. They were not regularly disciplined troops, but
fairly occupied the position of the 'awkward squad.' It had the effect,
however, of exciting a good deal of merriment; indeed I have seldom seen a
rehearsal produce such striking effects. The high and imposing ceremonies
of the Church, partaking largely of the grand and mystic formula which
belonged to our cathedral service before the Reformation, and which again
bids fair, at least partially, to occupy its altars, impressed upon the
vast and brilliant assemblage gathered beneath the Gothic roof a mingled
feeling of royalty and devotion, which was in former days the very essence
of chivalry, and which seemed to have taken new growth in this advanced
age, from the associating link of ancient costume, which met the eye at
every turn. The austere and solemn silence of the place was lost in the
mingled feelings which occupied all hearts; and as the lofty chants of the
church swelled into divine melody, a half-breathing, a solemn, suppressed
emotion, spoke deeply to the heart of other realms above. It is impossible
to hear the loud swell of the organ and exquisite melody of the varieties
of the human voice harmoniously blended, and bursting forth together in
one loud and glorious song of praise, without feeling that our destiny is
more than earthly. It should be taken into consideration that there is a
vast multitude on the outside, who are really getting impatient for their
part of the pageant. It is true, those who have secured places in the
different splendid pavilions erected in the immediate vicinity of the
platform, are more at their ease, and with the aid of long purses can
indulge in all the luxuries so amply provided by liberal caterers; but
still 'fair play' is our motto; and we will at once throw open the
abbey-doors and marshal forth the most brilliant _cortége_ that ever
issued from its sacred walls; the herb-woman, Miss Fellows, and her
attendants, strewing the path with flowers, blending the red rose and the
white together, symbolical of the fact, that 'no longer division racked
the state,' but that unreserved allegiance was due to the monarch before
them. The excitement of the morning with respect to the QUEEN had not
entirely subsided; and some few greetings must have caught the KING'S ear,
that were not expressive of unbounded loyalty; but these formed a very
slight proportion of the people. LORD CASTLEREAGH came in also for his
share of these unseemly greetings; but his noble glance and really
majestic appearance; his smile, not of disdain, but which marked an
unflinching firmness of resolve; speedily converted their anger into
applause. THE DUKE OF YORK and PRINCE LEOPOLD excited great interest by
their dignified and elegant deportment. The KING, as he passed up the
hall, was greeted with the most enthusiastic cheering and the waving of
handkerchiefs from the élite of both sexes; but he appeared oppressed and
worn down with fatigue, in which doubtless anxiety had its portion. His
Majesty then retired to an apartment prepared for his reception, to take
some repose during the royal banquet.

The long tables running down the hall on each side were covered with rich
damask; triumphal arches and every ingenious device that could by
possibility bear upon the pageant, were lavishly placed upon the tables,
splendidly ornamented with artificial flowers, rivalling the goddess Flora
herself. The entrance to the hall was a grand Gothic archway; but one of
the most singular effects produced, was by the numerous chandeliers in
_ormolu_ hanging from the lofty roof, sending forth myriads of little
twinkling stars, that essayed to dim the light of the sun, who here and
there sent in his beams through the narrow loopholes and windows of the
hall, to catch a glimpse of the splendid ceremonies. The banquet
commenced; and it was not a little amusing to see the city authorities
maintain their charter by commencing a most formidable attack upon the
turtle and the viands which were so profusely spread over the table. Not a
moment was lost. Triumphal arches quickly assumed the appearance of
shapeless ruins, and wines from every quarter of the globe paid a heavy
duty upon being deposited in the city vats!

At length the martial clangor of the trumpet announced the royal banquet.
His Majesty took his seat on the _dais_, with the imperial crown upon his
head amid the deafening shouts of the up-standing noblesse of the land.
LORD GLENGALL'S seat was high up in the hall; and next to him, on one
side, was the EARL OF BLESSINGTON, whom I had the honor of knowing, and
the EARL OF FALMOUTH on the other, both of whom are now gathered to their
fathers. They insisted upon my taking a seat with them, to which of course
I was nothing loath; and there I fully participated in all the luxuries of
the table, instead of waiting like an humble page for the remains of the
feast. Lord Blessington requested me to go into the peeresses' gallery and
endeavour to procure refreshments for LADY BLESSINGTON. I had never seen
her ladyship; but her famed beauty and talents did not render the task one
of great difficulty. Amid a blaze of beauty, I soon discovered the fair
lady, to whom I was to enact my part of Esquire. In return for the
attentions I had the good fortune to offer, I received most gracious
smiles, and the blandest of speeches, and felt myself rise in stature as I
again paced the ancient hall. At length one of the most imposing
ceremonies commenced; and many a swan-like neck was stretched to catch a
glimpse of the unapproachable magnificence of the scene; the entrance of
the champion (accompanied by the hero of a thousand battles,) in a full
suit of armor and superbly mounted on a white charger with a plume of
feathers on its head; the MARQUIS OF ANGLESEA, similarly caparisoned; the
LORD HOWARD of Effingham, and others of comparatively less note. It had
been whispered that Mr. Horace Seymour (now SIR HORACE,) had been selected
by His Majesty for that important character, and his splendid appearance
would perhaps under other circumstances have justified the choice. The
right, however, was hereditary, and the real representative would indeed
have shown craven, and unworthy the high distinction, if he had
relinquished so honorable a position. The anecdote which is related at the
coronation of George III., of the challenge having been accepted in behalf
of PRINCE CHARLES STUART, after the gauntlet was dashed upon the earth,
was here omitted; for here, happily, there was an undisputed succession.
After the champion had drank to the health of 'GEORGE THE FOURTH, the
rightful monarch of Great Britain,' in a cup of gold sent by His Majesty,
(and which is retained by the champion,) he and the accompanying nobles
backed their horses the whole distance down the hall, gracefully bowing to
their monarch at distinct intervals, amid the most enthusiastic cheering.

WALTER SCOTT was there, his eye sparkling with delight, and devouring that
magnificence of which _his_ pen alone could convey the unlimited splendor.
_Non nobis Domine_ was given by a numerous choir most superbly; and the
whole of the ceremonies were at length concluded. I left the hall with the
loss of my cap and feathers, and in a humble beaver, which I borrowed from
a friend in the immediate vicinity, I elbowed my way through the crowd,
sated with splendor and fairly exhausted. London was a blaze of light, and
Hyde Park, I presume for the first time, was brilliantly illuminated.
Fireworks of the most dazzling description shot meteor-like from every
open spot in the vast metropolis, and the pyrotechnical art displayed in
the parks at the government expense beggared all description. As I have
already stated, Covent-Garden Theatre made a golden harvest by
anticipating the coronation; but it was left for Drury-Lane to give as
near as possible a fac-simile of the one that had so recently taken place.
A platform was thrown over the centre of the pit, across which the
procession took place. ELLISTON repeated it so often to crowded houses,
that at length he fancied himself the KING _de jure_; and his enthusiasm
carried him to such an extent, that on one occasion he stopped suddenly in
the centre of the platform, and with a most gracious and benignant smile,
extended his arms at full length and gave the audience a regal blessing,
in the following pithy sentence: '_Bless ye, my people!_'




I FOLLOW.

                  'O! mon roi!
      Prends comme moi racine, ou donne-moi des ailes
                  Comme a toi!'

                                                          VICTOR HUGO.


    Eagle! that coursing by on mighty pinion,
      Cleaving the cloud with firm and dauntless breast,
    Hast deigned to stoop thee from thy proud dominion,
      To circle in thy flight my lowly nest.

    I mark thee now, all heavenward ascending,
      Thy far form cresting the cerulean,
    Above earth's shadows on thy pathway wending,
      Thine eye of fire aye fixed upon the sun.

    Oh! as I watch thee, all unfettered sweeping
      High o'er the rift that weighs my pinion here,
    I yearn like thee my plume in ether steeping,
      To soar away through yon free atmosphere.

    Thine eye was on my spirit's humble dwelling,
      And as I met its all pervading rays,
    I felt along each vein new nature swelling,
      And my weak heart grow strong beneath thy gaze.

    And thus infused with thine unfearing spirit,
      My wing, that scarcely might essay yon rack,
    Casting the feebleness it did inherit,
      Would boldly dare with thee the upward track.

    And think not I would sink: no, all unquailing,
      I poise me now to follow on thy way;
    To mount the tempest-cloud with nerve unfailing,
      And thread the path whereon the lightnings play.

    Press on! strong plumed! on tireless wing upspringing,
      Thy course be ever toward the empyrean;
    And at thy side my bonded spirit winging,
      Will mount with thee till thy high goal be won!

_New-York, December, 1843._                            MARY E. HEWITT.




REMINISCENCES OF A DARTMOOR PRISONER.

NUMBER ONE.


It was my fortune to be taken prisoner in India during the war of 1812. I
was, with others, confined in Fort William at Calcutta, for several
months, until the authorities could find an opportunity to send us to
England. At length the Bengal fleet being ready for their return voyage,
the prisoners were distributed on board the several vessels which composed
it. I was placed with a few others on board the 'Lord Wellington,' and
being in a destitute condition, I agreed to assist in working the ship to
England, at the same rate as the regular hands on board. The fleet
rendezvoused in the near vicinity, and consisted of something over thirty
sail, most of them of the largest class, and equal in size to a
line-of-battle ship. They were well armed, some carrying thirty or forty
guns, with a plentiful supply of muskets, pikes, etc. This had been
customary for many years, as a protection against the French privateers
and men-of-war, which swarmed the Indian ocean; in many instances proving
themselves more than a match for their enemies, and sometimes beating off
large class frigates.

On going on board, I found between four and five hundred people, including
officers, passengers, and crew. The captain was a large heavy-built man,
very unwieldy, and remarkable only for having a large, long body placed
upon very small legs. He reminded me of an ill-constructed building, ready
to fall by its own weight. He appeared never to be happy unless he was 'in
hot water,' either with the passengers or crew. There were six mates, or
more properly lieutenants, for all the officers were in uniform. There
were also a dozen or more midshipmen, a boatswain and his two mates,
gunners, quarter-masters, armorers, sail-makers, and carpenters in
abundance. In short, we were fitted out in complete man-of-war fashion;
not forgetting the cat-o'-nine-tails, which was used with great
liberality. The crew was made up of all nations, but the majority
consisted of broken-down men-of-war's men, who being unfit for His
Majesty's service had little fear of imprisonment. The others were
composed of Portuguese, Dutch, Italian, etc.; and taken altogether, one
would have inferred that they must have been drafted from Falstaff's
regiment of taterdamallions.

One fine morning the fleet got under way. Nothing note-worthy or
interesting however occurred until we made the island of Ceylon, where we
lay a couple of days; during which time the crew _got_ and _kept_ most
unaccountably drunk. The officers tried every method to solve the mystery,
but without effect. The truth was, the men became suddenly fond of
cocoa-nuts, selecting them from the bum-boats in preference to any other
fruit. The secret was, that the shell was bored before the nut was quite
ripe, the juice poured out, and _Arrack_ substituted in its place. Our
next place of stopping was Madras, where we took in more cargo, but no
more cocoa-nuts, as no fruit-boats put off to us, the weather being too
rough to admit of it.

We had now been at sea several weeks, and had many among our crew and
passengers upon the sick-list. Of the former, was a young man on his first
voyage. He had been ill more than a week, and there being no physician on
board, there was little or nothing done for him. At length he became
delirious at intervals; and during the whole of the last night of his
existence he made the most piercing and heart-rending cries; calling
incessantly for his mother and sister, and lamenting that he should never
see them more. Poor fellow! before the next night he was sewed up in his
hammock, with a couple of shot at his feet; prayers were read over him,
and in the presence of his silent and pensive ship-mates, he was consigned
to the ocean, that vast and sublime grave of countless millions of our
race. Several weeks after this occurrence, one of the passengers, a
Frenchman, died of the consumption, and was buried in the same way; and
had not the subject been of too serious a nature, the event would have
partaken somewhat of the ludicrous. As usual, the shot was placed at the
feet of the dead body, but proved to be insufficient to sink it. The
consequence was, that the head and shoulders remained above the surface,
bobbing up and down, until we lost sight of it in the distance. The
captain's clerk always officiated as Chaplain at the funerals and divine
service; which latter, by the way, was more of a farce than any thing
else; for I have known more than one instance where they have been
interrupted in the very midst by a squall of wind. Then to see the hubbub;
the congregation dispersed; some ordered aloft, with such pious (though
sometimes more forcible) ejaculations as: 'Lay aloft there, you lubbers!
D--n your bloods! I'll see your back-bones! I'll set the cat at you!' etc.

We now approached the Cape of Good Hope. The weather became lowering; and
as the day advanced, heavy masses of black clouds gradually arose above
the horizon, and palled the sky. Night came on suddenly, and with it the
threatened storm in all its fury. The darkness was as it were the
quintessence of an ink-bottle. _Nothing_ could be seen, save when the
lightning gleamed, or when the rockets which were sent up from the
Commodore, and broke forth, spreading their lurid, baleful light to give
notice to the squadron of their position; then for an instant the whole
scene was lit up with a hideous glare, when all would subside again into
tenfold darkness. This, accompanied by the whistling of the wind, the roar
of thunder, and the booming of a gun at intervals from the Commodore, to
give notice for putting about, gave a grandeur and sublimity to the scene,
which I have never seen surpassed. Fear gave way to excitement; and the
idea of perishing amid this terrible war of the elements was worth years
of the monotony of every-day life. I thought too of the Flying Dutchman,
but did not fall in with him until some time after, and then it was by
day-light, and without the poetry of 'darkness, and cloud, and storm.'

The tempest gradually subsided, and at the end of two or three days
scarcely a breath of wind was to be felt. Angry Nature had changed her
frowns for sportive smiles; the face of the great deep was like polished
glass; but there was a long swell of the ocean, apparently of miles in
length; its bosom heaving and sinking, as if still oppressed with its late
troubles. Our ship lay utterly unmanageable, her sails flapping idly
against the masts. There was not sufficient wind to make her answer the
helm; and there we lay, rolling and plunging, expecting every moment to
see our masts go by the board. The lower yards dipped at every roll; and
so great was the strain, that it drew the strong iron ring-bolts by which
the guns were secured, and the lashings which fastened the large
water-butts broke loose. This was at night; and the power and speed with
which these heavy articles were driven from side to side was truly
terrific. It took all hands the whole night, (and not without great
danger) to secure them. The next day, a new and greater danger presented
itself in a different form. A large ship, about the size of our own, lay
in the same helpless condition; and by reason of a current, or some other
cause, approached so near that it became truly alarming. Both vessels were
rolling their keels nearly out of the water; and had they come in contact,
it would have been certain destruction to both. It was necessary that
something should be done immediately; and the crews of both vessels were
ordered into their respective boats, with lines attached to the ships; and
with several hours' hard labor at the oars, they were enabled to separate
them.

It was about this time that I had a view, not of the Flying Dutchman
exactly, but of his ship, while standing on the forecastle early one
morning. There had been a fog during the night, and a portion of the vapor
still hung over the surface of the water. I had remained in that position
but a few moments, when my attention was called by the boatswain's-mate,
who stood near by: 'Look yonder!' said he, pointing with his finger. I
looked in the direction indicated, and lo! there lay the mystic 'Phantom
Ship.' She was only a few yards off; perfectly becalmed, with no more
motion than if painted on canvass, and apparently not over six feet long,
yet perfect in every respect. I was gazing in admiration, with my eyes
rivetted upon the object, when there came a light breath of air, so light
that I could hardly feel it; presently the mist began gradually to rise
and disperse; the ship began to recede; the magic scene was at an end! A
breeze had sprung up, and the phantom-ship proved to be one of the fleet;
and by a signal from the Commodore, she took her station in line with the
other vessels. I never saw any thing like it before nor since. The
atmospheric delusion was astonishing; but it was nothing new to the old
boatswain's-mate. All the other vessels were obscured by the fog, and this
happened to be the nearest to us. Had the others been in sight they might
(or might not) have presented the same appearance. Possibly the position
of that particular ship helped to produce the effect. The sight of so
large a fleet formed in two lines, extending four or five miles, each
convoyed by a man-of-war, like a troop of soldiers led on in single-file
by its officers, was 'beautiful exceedingly;' especially when the rising
or setting sun illuminated their white sails, and a signal-gun from the
Commodore changed their course; every ship in that vast fleet, at the cry
of 'About ship!' moving as by one mind, and gracefully bowing to, and as
it were saluting, the breeze! It was a scene never to be forgotten.

The wind gradually increased until it became a smart breeze, and we soon
neared the Island of St. Helena. Here we first heard of the downfall of
NAPOLEON, the greatest warrior of all ages; one who struck such terror
into the souls of combined Europe, that they dared not let him go free,
and imposed upon Great Britain the honorable task of becoming his jailor;
and her very heart quaked within her bosom while life remained in his;
doomed though he was to perpetual and hopeless exile, upon an isolated
rock in the midst of the ocean. On seeing the yellow flags, with the motto
'_Orange boven_,' flying at the mast-heads of the shipping, and hearing of
the overthrow of the power of France, our old Dutch boatswain's-mate, (who
in his youth had served with the brave Admiral De Winter, and who had
braved the 'battle and the breeze' for more than half a century,) was
touched to the very depths of his stout heart. He was completely melted,
and wept like a child over the fallen fortunes of NAPOLEON. 'Holland,'
said he, 'has lost her best friend. Who like him will watch over and
protect my country!'  He was naturally of a cheerful disposition; but from
that time to the close of the voyage, he appeared sad and disheartened,
and a smile scarce ever came over his countenance. I may remark in
passing, that there were on board of our ship some ten or fifteen Dutch
prisoners, who were the remnant of a large force that had formerly been
garrisoned at the island of Java. All but these few had been gradually
wasted away by pestilence and the poisoned spears and knives of the
natives; and Holland, being so much engaged in her wars at home, had no
means of aiding so distant a colony. Such was their condition when the
island fell into the hands of the English; and they were rescued from
destruction by the natives, only by becoming prisoners of war to the
English. They were all old men, and some of them could speak a little
English: they used to relate to me their former condition, and talk of
their future prospects. The tale was a sad one. When young they were
'kidnapped,' as they termed it, by the government, as no volunteers could
be got to serve in that sickly climate.  They were forced from home and
their parents at a tender age and sent to that far country, whence they
had no prospect of ever returning, or hearing from their friends. Some of
them had been absent for forty years, during which time they had seen none
of their connexions, and seldom heard from them; for many years all
intercourse had been dropped. They felt themselves entire strangers in the
world; they were going to Holland to be sure, but not to their home. After
the lapse of so many years, where could they seek for their friends? Death
and other causes had removed and scattered them; and they almost dreaded
the time when they should again set their feet upon the land of their
fathers. Having been many months their associate in imprisonment, I took a
deep interest in these poor fellows; participated in their feelings, and
parted from them with regret. Peace to their memories!  They have without
doubt long ere this ended their weary pilgrimage of life.

We remained at St. Helena several weeks, waiting for the China fleet,
during which time we took in a fresh supply of provisions, water, etc.
This now famed island is nothing more nor less than a huge irregular block
of granite, rising perpendicularly from the midst of the sea. The town,
what there is of it, is built in a gully or chasm in the rock: the
inhabitants are composed mostly of the military establishment and those
connected with it, with perhaps a few exceptions. The island is only
useful as a stopping-place for outward and homeward bound India-men, etc;
and the inhabitants would be in a state of starvation, were it not for the
supplies of provisions which they obtain from the shipping which put in
there. All manner of coins from all manner of countries are in circulation
here; and all copper coin goes for a penny, be it twice the size of a
dollar, or as small as a five-cent piece. A person that way minded might
soon make a large and curious collection here.

The China fleet now made its appearance, and after a few days' delay we
all got under weigh, with a convoy of a frigate, a sloop-of-war, and a
transport full of troops, who on their arrival in England were ordered
immediately to the United States, where they were sadly cut up at the
battle of New-Orleans. We left the island with a stiff breeze, which
continued with fine clear weather for several days. The fleet amounted to
over seventy sail, and was arranged in two lines; and in fine weather,
with all sail set, we composed a beautiful spectacle. During the whole of
the voyage the utmost precaution was used to prevent an attack or capture
by privateers, or national vessels of the enemy. Lights of every kind were
strictly forbidden at night, except through a special order from a
superior officer, and a double watch was kept day and night.

'Land, ho!' cried the look-out at the mast-head, one day. It proved to be
what is termed the Western Islands, which lay directly ahead of us. 'Sail,
ho!' was the next cry; and all eyes were turned toward the strangers. They
were two 'long, low, black-looking schooners,' lying-to very quietly,
about three miles ahead.  'See the d----d Yankees!' shouted all hands, in
full chorus, as the American flag was displayed at their gaff. A thrill
shot through my nerves; my heart swelled, and my eyes filled with tears,
as I beheld the Flag of my Country for the first time for many months. No
one can imagine the love he bears his native land, until he tests it as I
have done. Many were the speculations as to the probability of capturing
the saucy privateersman; for by this time all the sail that the convoy
could possibly set was spread in chase of the enemy, who as yet had made
no attempt to fly, although apparently but a stone's throw ahead of us.
Our captain was the only one in my hearing who seemed to doubt their being
taken: 'The d----d scamps know too well,' said he, 'what their craft can
do, to trust themselves so near us.' We now appeared close on board of
them, and the chase well under way, when each fired a gun in defiance or
derision, and darted off like birds. It was now nearly dark, and we were
not far from land, for which one of the schooners seemed to fly right
before the wind, closely pursued by the frigate, under all the canvass she
could set. The other put out to sea, close-hauled upon the wind. The brig
and transport, the fastest craft in the fleet, crowded all sail, but
without nearing the schooner, as she could lie at least two points more to
windward than her pursuers. They both escaped! The frigate being disabled,
by springing her fore-top-mast, gave up the chase; the others relinquished
the pursuit as fruitless, and rejoined the fleet.

The night was extremely dark; and the next morning two large vessels were
missing. It seemed that the privateers had returned, and hovering around,
watched their opportunity, and captured two of our most richly-freighted
ships; but as those seas were swarming with British cruisers, they were
shortly re-captured and sent to England, where the whole fleet soon
arrived. The West-India fleet came into port about the same time; and the
amount of wealth brought into London by the safe arrival of the Bengal,
China, and West-India fleets, must have been almost incredible. For
myself, I was consigned to a dreary prison, 'as will more particularly
appear' in an ensuing number.




A VERITABLE SEA STORY.

BY HARRY FRANCO.


  'The sea, the sea, the o--pen sea, the blue, the _fresh_;' but
            here we halt;
  Mr. CORNWALL knew very little about the sea, or he would have
              written SALT.
          'The whales they whistled, the porpoise rolled,
           And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;'
  Worse and worse; more blunders than words, and such a jumble!
  Whales _spout_, but never whistle; dolphins' backs are silver; and
              porpoises never roll, but tumble.
          'It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,
           And like a cradled creature lies,' and squalls,
           He should have added; but to avoid brawls
  With the poet's friends I'll quote no more; but _entre nous_,
  Those who write correctly about the sea are exceeding few.
  Young DANA with us, and MARRYAT over the water,[1]
  Are all the writers that I know of, who appear to have brought a
  Discerning eye to bear on that peculiar state of existence,
  An ocean life, which looks so romantic at a distance.
  To succeed where every body else fails, would be an uncommon glory,
  While to fail would be no disgrace; so I am resolved to try my
              hand upon a sea-story.
  In naming sea-authors, I omitted COOPER, CHAMIER, SUE, and many others,
  Because they appear to have gone to sea without asking leave of
              their mothers:
  For those good ladies never could have consented that their boys
              should dwell on
  An element that Nature never fitted them to excel on.
  Their descriptions are so fine, and their tars so exceedingly flowery,
  They appear to have gathered their ideas from some naval spectacle
              at the 'Bowery;'
  And in fact I have serious doubts whether either of them ever saw
              blue water,
  Or ever had the felicity of saluting the 'gunner's daughter.'

      [1] I HAVE unintentionally omitted to name FALCONER, who
          deserves the highest honors among nautical writers.

  It was on board of the packet ----, from feelings deferential
  To private griefs, I omit all facts that are non-essential:
  To Havre we were bound, and passengers there were four of us,
  Three men and a lady--not an individual more of us.
  The month was July, the weather warm and hazy,
  The sea smooth as glass, the winds asleep or lazy.
  Dull times of course, for the sea, though favorable to the mind's
              expansion,
  Yet keeps the body confined to a very few feet of stanchion.
  Our employments were nought save eating, drinking and sleeping,
  Excepting the lady, who a diary was keeping.
  She was a very pleasant person though fat, and a long way past forty,
  Which will of course prevent any body from thinking any thing naughty.
  A very pleasant person, but such an enormous feeder,
  That our captain began to fear she might prove a famine-breeder;
  A sort of female Falstaff, fond of jokes and gay society,
  Cards, claret, eau-de-vie, and a great hater of sobriety.
  Her favorite game at cards she acknowledged was _ecarté_,
  But like Mrs. Battle, she loved whist, and we soon made up a party.
  We played from morn till night, and then from night till morning,
  Although the captain, who was pious, continually gave us warning.
  That time so badly spent would lead to some disaster;
  At which Madame G---- would laugh, and only deal the faster.
  Breakfast was served at eight, and as soon as it was ended
  Round flew the cards; and the game was not suspended
  Until seven-bells struck, when we stopped a while for lunch,
  To allow Madame time to imbibe her allowance of punch;
  This done, at work we went, with heated blood and flushed faces,
  Talking of kings, queens, knaves, tricks, clubs and aces.
  At six bells (three P. M.,) we threw down our cards and went to dinner,
  Where Madame never missed her appetite, whether she had been a loser
              or a winner;
  Then up from the almonds and raisins, and down again to the
              queens and aces,
  We had only to remove from one end of the table to the other to
              resume our places;
  Another pause at six, P. M., for in spite of all our speeches,
  Madame's partner would lay down his cards for the sake of pouchong
              and brandy peaches;
  Being French and polite, of course, she only said '_Eh bien!_' but
              no doubt thought him a lubber,
  For a cup of washy tea to break in upon her rubber.
  At four bells (ten P. M.,) up from the cards and down again at
              the table,
  To drink champaigne and eat cold chicken as long as we were able:
  With very slight variations this was the daily life we led,
  Breakfast, whist; lunch, whist; dinner, whist; supper, whist; and
              then to bed.
  The sea, for aught we know, was like that which Coleridge's mariners
              sailed on;
  We never looked at it, nor the sky, nor the stars; and our captain
              railed on,
  But still we played, until one day there was a sudden dismemberment
              of our party;
  We had dined on soup _ą la tortu_, (made of pig's feet,) of which
              Madame ate uncommonly hearty;
  And had just resumed our game; it was her cut, but she made no motion;
  'Cut, Madame,' said I; 'Good Heavens!' exclaimed her partner, 'I've
              a notion
  That she _has_ cut for good; quick! help her! she's falling!'
  And the next moment on the floor of the cabin she lay sprawling.
  Poor Madame! It was in vain that we tried hartshorne, bathing
              and bleeding;
  Her spirit took its flight, tired to death of her high feeding:
  For spirits are best content with steady habits and spare diet,
  And will remain much longer in a tabernacle where they can enjoy
              repose and quiet
  Than in a body that is continually uneasy with stuffing,
  And goes about like an overloaded porter, sweating and puffing.

  The next morning at four-bells, the sun was just uprisen,
  Glowing with very joy to leave his watery prison;
  The bright cerulean waves with golden scales were crested,
  Forming the fairest scene on which my eyes had ever rested;
  The wind was S. S. W., and when they let go the main-top bowline
  To square the after yards, our good ship stopped her rolling.
  Madame lay on the quarter-deck sewed up in part of an old spanker,
  And for this glorious sight of the ocean we had solely to thank her,
  For to have kept her lying in the cabin would have caused some
              of us to feel qualmish,
  And she could not have been kept on deck, as the weather was
              growing warmish;
  Therefore it had been resolved in a kind of council, on the
              captain's motion,
  At sunrise to commit the old lady to the ocean.
  She was placed upon a plank, resting upon the taffrail, (the
              stern railing,)
  One end of which was secured by a bight of the trysail brailing.
  The captain read the prayers, somewhat curtailed, but a just proportion,
  The plank was raised, 'Amen!' the corpse dropped into the ocean.
  Down in its deep mysterious caves she sunk to sleep with fishes,
  While a few bubbles rose from her and burst as if in mockery
              of human wishes.
  'Up with your helm; brace round; haul out your bowlines;
  Clear up the deck; keep her full; coil down your tow-lines!'
  The ship was on her course, and not a word said to remind us
  Of the melancholy fact that we had left one of our number behind us.
  'Shocking affair!' I remarked to Madame's partner, who looked
              solemn as a mummy,
  'O! horrid!' said he; '_I shall now be compelled to play with a Dummy!_'




ON A PASSAGE IN MACBETH.

  'Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
  She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.'

                                                              MACBETH.


Let us put on one side for a few moments the horrid midnight murder of the
gracious Duncan. Let us suppose of the buried majesty of Scotland,

  ----'Upward to Heaven he took his flight,
  If ever soul ascended!'

Let us for the moment imagine Mrs. Siddons to have been the veritable Lady
Macbeth, and acknowledge that never was man more powerfully tempted into
evil, nor more deeply punished with his fall from Virtue, than this, the
Thane of Glamis and of Cawdor. My concernment in this Essay is neither
with his virtue, nor his fall. I neither come to praise, nor bury Cęsar:

  'Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
  She strike upon the bell. Get _thee_ to bed.'

In the reading I desire should be here given to the language of the
immortal bard, it will be perceived that the last pronoun is made
emphatic. 'Get _thee_ to bed.'

The household of the castle of Macbeth, excited and disturbed as its
members had been throughout the day by the unexpected arrival of the King
of Scotland at Inverness, are now subsiding into rest. The King has
retired. His suite are provided for in various parts of the quadrangle;
and all the tumultuary sounds of preparation and of festive enjoyment have
followed the departed day; and Banquo charged with a princely gift to the
Lady Macbeth under the title of _most kind hostess_, from her confiding
and now slumbering monarch, has paid his compliments and gone.

Now comes the deeper stillness, and the witching hour of that eventful
night; and the noble Thane, having gone the rounds of his hushed castle to
place all entrances under both watch and ward, turns to his torch-bearer,
the last remaining household servant of the train, and dismisses him with
the message I have read. The words excite no surprise in the mind of the
attendant. He receives the command and departs upon his errand; to deliver
it as had doubtless been his office before, and then retire for the night:

  'Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
  She strike upon the bell.'

Admired Editor, I have now that to say in thine ear that may possibly
startle thy preceptions, shock thy wishes, and for the moment interfere
with thy store of tragick recollection. I would have thee imagine with me,
that Macbeth, stifling all murderous intent, and all disloyal thought, had
honestly gone down at the sound of the bell, and, as must have been his
wont as is shewn from the manner in which his attendant receives the
charge, had soberly partaken of the warm and grateful drink his noble
partner had prepared for his refreshing and composing use.

Imagine the illustrious and majestick pair, their household having
entirely withdrawn, seated in the deep silence of the night, on either
side of a small table as was their happy wont, and gently, calmly,
dispassionately, and elegantly sipping that prepared beverage; that 'drink
made ready' by hands then yet innocent and spotless. Imagine the
ingredients of which that dilution must have been composed! Not wine for
wine is always 'ready.' O call it not by any other W! Let it not be named
Glenlivet; think not upon Ferintosh. It was PURE REALITY IN THE LUSTRE OF
A MILD GLORIFICATION, _mingled with droppings of the dew of morning_.

They say that the mind of man is a mere bundle of associations, and that
our success in moving it to our purpose depends on our awakening the most
powerful, or most agreeable of them. I know not of what associations that
of the reader may be composed; but for my own part I think a little warm
drink before going to bed upon a night when owls hoot and chimnies are to
be blown down, prepared by the small hands that one loves, and that all
admire; where a dimple takes place of what in a plebeian hand is a
knuckle, and the round fingers taper gently off toward points that are
touched with damask and bordered with little rims of ivory; where bright
eyes beam with kindness as well as wit; and words fall in silvery tones
from a beautifully-formed mouth, like the renewal of life upon the soul of
man! I think where one could enjoy all this, it was a monstrous act of
folly on the part of Macbeth to fret about the principality of Cumberland,
or covet even the whole kingdom of Scotland. For my own part I must say,
give me the warm drink and the sweet companionship of that night, and let
old Duncan with a hearty welcome sleep up to his heart's content the whole
'ravelled sleeve of care!'

Oh Woman! dear, good, kind, blessed, beautiful Woman! chosen of Heaven
(and O how well!) for the meet companion of our otherwise forlorn race! is
there a moment throughout that whole circle of the Sun which we call Day
more sweet to us, than that which follows the well-performed duties of our
lot and that gives thee altogether to us at its close, gentle, refined,
affectionate, soothing, bland, and unreserved? The hour that precedes
retirement for the night, when the early luxury of languor begins to take
possession of the senses? When the eyes are not heavy, but threaten to
become so, and long silken lashes first make love to each other? When it
is time to confine part of that rich hair en papilotte and fold the whole
into that pretty cap; to place the feet in small graceful slippers, and
let ease put fashion tastefully on one side in the arrangement of the
dress?

Doubtless there is a period during the delirium of youthful fancy when the
calmer pleasures are unappreciated at their value, but the Andante of
existence follows the Allegro of boyhood; its precious strains fall deeper
and more touchingly upon the Sense; and the full Soul longs to yield
itself to them, and to share its emotions with the beloved one in tones
heard only in her ivory ear----how beautiful! Oh pure of heart, how
beautiful!----and, when the belle, still delighting to please, has become
the friend; and the mistress, still fascinating, the wife; and one
interest, one faith, one hope, one joy, one passion, one life, animate
both hearts----oh then,

  Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
  She strike upon the bell. Get _thee_ to bed.'

                                                          JOHN WATERS.




THE SMITHY.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.


  There was a little smithy at the comer of the road,
  In the village where, when life glow'd fresh and bright, was my abode;
  A little slab-roof'd smithy, of a stain'd and dusky red,
  An ox-frame standing by the door, and at one side a shed;
  The road was lone and pleasant, with margins grassy-green,
  Where browsing cows and nibbling geese from morn till night were seen.

  High curl'd the smoke from the humble roof with dawning's earliest bird,
  And the tinkle of the anvil first of the village sounds was heard;
  The bellows-puff, the hammer-beat, the whistle and the song,
  Told, steadfastly and merrily, Toil roll'd the hours along,
  Till darkness fell, and the smithy then with its forge's clear deep light
  Through chimney, window, door, and cleft, poured blushes on the night.

  The morning shows its azure breast and scarf of silvery fleece,
  The margin-grass is group'd with cows, and spotted with the geese;
  On the dew-wet green by the smithy, there's a circle of crackling fire,
  Hurrah! how it blazes and curls around the coal-man's welded tire!
  While o'er it, with tongs, are the smith and his man, to fit it
              when cherry-red,
  To the tilted wheel of the huge grim'd ark in the back-ground
              of the shed.

  There's a stony field on the ridge to plough, and Brindle must be shod,
  And at noon, through the lane from the farm-house, I see him slowly plod;
  In the strong frame, chewing his cud, he patiently stands, but see!
  The bands have been placed around him--he struggles to be free:
  But John and Timothy hammer away, until each hoof is arm'd,
  Then loosen'd Brindle looks all round, as if wondering he's unharm'd.

  Joe Matson's horse wants shoeing, and at even-tide he's seen,
  An old gray sluggish creature, with his master on the green;
  Within the little smithy old Dobbin Matson draws,
  There John is busily twisting screws, and Timothy filing saws;
  The bellows sleeps, the forge is cold, and twilight dims the room,
  With anvil, chain, and iron bar, faint glimmering through the gloom.

  I stand beside the threshhold and gaze upon the sight,
  The doubtful shape of the old gray horse, and the points of
              glancing light:
  But hark! the bellows wakens, out dance the sparks in air,
  And now the forge is raked high up, now bursts it to a glare;
  How brightly and how cheerily the sudden glow outbreaks,
  And what a charming picture of the humble room it makes!

  It glints upon the horse-shoes on the ceiling-rafters hung,
  On the anvil and the leaning sledge its quivering gleams are flung;
  It touches with bronze the smith and his man, and it bathes old
              dozing gray,
  And a blush is fixed on Matson's face in the broad and steady ray;
  One moment more, and the iron is whirl'd with fierce and spattering glow,
  And swank! swank! swank! rings the sledge's smite, tink! tink! the
              hammer's blow.

  'Whoa, Dobbin!' says Tim, as he pares the hoof, 'whoa! whoa!' as he
              fits the shoe,
  And the click of the driving nails is heard, till the humble toil
              is through;
  Pleas'd Matson mounts his old gray steed, and I hear the heavy beat
  Of the trotting hoofs, up the corner road, till the sounds in the
              distance fleet:
  And I depart with grateful joy to the King of earth and heaven,
  That e'en to life in its lowliest phase, such interest should be given.




THE FINE ARTS.

A FEW HINTS ON THE PHILOSOPHY OF SIZE IN ITS RELATION TO THE FINE ARTS.

BY GEORGE HARVEY.


It is a common remark made by most persons who visit the mightiest
cataract in the world, that it fails to impress one's mind with that just
idea of its grandeur which truly belongs to its vastness, and which is
always formed from attentively reading or listening to a correct verbal or
written description of it. Even the most faithful drawings cannot awaken
an adequate conception of the majesty, the greatness of NIAGARA. Now the
law of optics will serve to convince us that this must ever be so, since
the image formed in the dark chamber of the eye is exceedingly small; and
as the Falls are always approached gradually from a distance, the
surrounding landscape occupies by far the largest portion of the field of
vision; hence the descending stream can only sustain a subordinate part in
the general view; but when you have approached the very verge of the
precipice over which the rolling waters rush with maddening roar; or when,
from beneath, you stand upon the piles of broken rocks, and look upward or
around, and can only embrace a small portion of the falling waters; then
and then only, do the anticipated emotions crowd upon the soul, causing it
to stand in trembling awe, vibrating in unison with the fragments of the
fallen precipice upon which you tread.

I remember some years since, in looking at an image of the 'American
Falls' reflected in a camera-obscura which was built on the opposite
shore, noticing how extremely insignificant it appeared, notwithstanding
the table of vision was five feet in diameter. The descending foam as it
was unevenly projected in billowy masses, appeared to move very slowly in
its downward course, causing a feeling of impatience at its tardiness: in
truth, the whole scene looked very tame and unsatisfactory, and I could
not help remarking to a friend who was with me, how utterly impossible it
would be for any artist to be thought successful in an attempt to
represent them. Nevertheless I made some twenty sketches from as many
different points of view; one only of which has procured any commendation,
as conveying an idea of the grandeur of the Great Cataract. It is evident
therefore that what the eye can take in at one look will never of itself
impress the mind with those sublime emotions which we conceive should
belong to vastness. Yet there is a physical attribute belonging to
subjects having this property of vastness, that will command more
attention than the same scene upon a small scale: but the mind must be
impressed with the fact, and must draw largely upon it for any emotion of
the sublime. It is therefore upon this principle that large portraits will
command from the multitude more applause than small miniatures; large
oil-paintings than small water-color drawings. The statues on the outside
of the Grecian temples were colossal, yet in their position they looked
small. Most of the works of Michael Angelo are so; but in consequence of
the distance at which they are seen, they lose greatly their power to
produce grand ideas, because in all cases the image formed upon the optic
nerve varies but little in its actual size; since the distance at which
things are viewed is in some degree regulated by the size: thus before a
large picture, you must station yourself at a relative distance, so as to
embrace the whole, while before the small drawing you must be within arm's
reach; or if a miniature portrait, it must be seen within a few inches,
thus making the mirrored picture on the eye vary but little in actual
size.

These few hints will readily account for the mortification experienced by
many artists who have painted exceedingly impressive pictures when they
are seen in the studios where they were executed, but when they are taken
into a large gallery or rotunda, seem lost and look insignificant, save to
the few of cultivated minds, who may take the trouble to approach within a
proper distance, and shut out all objects which interfere or intrude, and
which prevent a true appreciation of their merits. The knowing,
time-serving artists, who paint exhibition pictures, have long since
understood this law; and accordingly they paint up to what is called
'_exhibition-pitch_,' where brilliance and flashiness of color, with an
absence of detail, which might interfere with breadth of effect, are of
the first importance. Attention is also given to masses of light and
shade, that all the forms introduced in the picture may have their due
prominence; and a judicious balancing of warm and cool tints, by which
harmony is produced, and the eye prevented from being offended by its
evident exaggeration of the 'modesty of nature.'

TURNER may be instanced as the most successful in this style of painting,
which he has followed to such an extreme, that his pictures are now
attractive only at a great distance, for when they are seen near by, they
fail to please, if they do not produce positive disgust. Report represents
him as having accumulated upward of one hundred thousand pounds sterling,
which he could only have done by adopting this distant, effective style;
for if he had continued to finish his pictures in the same manner as he
did those of his early works, which procured for him the foundation of his
present wide-spread reputation, he would not have realized one eighth of
that sum. To paint one of the former, costs but a few hours' labor, but
one of the latter would employ many days if not weeks; yet the momentary
effect of pleasure derived from seeing the one is greater than that of the
other. Hence those who visit exhibitions, having but a limited time, are
gratified; but place one of the chaste productions of CLAUDE LORRAINE, who
diligently followed nature with all the tenderness of a modest student, by
the side of one of the tinsel class, and observe the ultimate effect. The
former will gradually win your admiration, and continue to arouse pleasing
reminiscences; the latter will finally lose its charm, and be regarded
with something of the feeling with which one looks upon the ornamental
paper of a room. We have had many exhibitions of single large pictures,
such as DUBUFE'S 'Don Juan,' which have produced handsome returns to those
who have purchased them for such speculating purposes. The parties have
been well aware of the physical effects of size; for had the same subjects
been painted upon a small scale, though equally well executed, they would
have been less attractive to the multitude; yet the smaller ones would
have reflected the same sized images in the camera of the eye; since, as I
have already hinted, to see them properly they must be viewed at short
distances, as the large pictures must be at greater proportionate ones.

I will here digress for a moment, in the hope that I may be permitted to
make mention of my own works, without incurring the charge of undue
egotism. Let me, however, by way of apology for calling public attention
to the series of forty small Water-Color Drawings, (painted _con amore_,
and with no idea of gain,) which are now before the public, mention the
fact, that the commencement of their publication was owing to a suggestion
of Gen. CASS, who urged me to undertake the enterprise while I was in
Paris. The drawings then consisted of half the present number of landscape
views; the localities and subjects of the latter half have been chosen
with the purpose of writing appropriate chapters illustrating the progress
of civilization and of refinement in the northern part of this continent.
The foregoing brief remark applies only to their publication; for their
_origin_ dates back to the halcyon days of early life, when I had but just
passed my teens; when boyish enthusiasm lends a charm to every dream that
finds a home in the fancy or the heart. Then it was that the latent wish
was formed of being able, at some future day, to paint the History of the
Day; and to carry out this impulsive feeling, I have been brought into
sweet communion with divine Nature; and oh! how bounteously has she repaid
my studious contemplation with infinite delight! It is not for me to speak
of the results. There they are; and every lover of the country may judge
of the degree of success I have achieved. I am not so certain that I have
equal ability in the use of the pen. The chapters of the first number will
speak for themselves; but I must not omit to acknowledge the many
obligations I am under to WASHINGTON IRVING, for the friendly revision of
my ms. He has given many an elegant turn to a prose sentence, and clothed
rude images with graceful drapery. But to resume.

Since then it follows that a small picture, being viewed at its proper
focal distance, reflects the same sized image as a larger one at _its_
proper focal distance, I can see no good reason why the physical attribute
of _largeness_ should be so eagerly sought for by the public. Surely a
gallery of small pictures, provided they be not painfully small, should be
preferred to one filled with large ones. We see the principle I am
contending for carried out in libraries. The ordinary sized volumes are
preferred, for most purposes, to the cumbrous tomes of large folio
editions. It is true, a large book will produce in the minds of many
persons greater respect than a miniature copy of the same work; but the
ideas contained in the one are no better or more impressive than the same
contained in that of the other; save the feeling with which the larger one
inspires the votary who looks no farther than the outside of the page. The
series of forty landscapes alluded to in the above digression, if viewed
at the focal distance of eighteen inches, will appear as large as those
twice the size, viewed at their proportionate increased distance. An
elaborately finished picture, to be seen to advantage, must be examined
near by. A coarser work, theatrical scenes for instance, painted for
distant effect, must be seen accordingly, if you would secure pleasurable
emotions. As a general approximative rule, the focal distance at which the
spectator should stand in viewing works of art is to be found by measuring
the same length from the picture as its size: Thus, one of ten feet in
length is to be viewed at that distance; one of eighteen inches at about
twenty inches; a small miniature of six inches, at about eight inches. If
the work should have no detail, this rule will not hold good; but if there
is a faithful transcript of Nature; and she ever delights in unobtrusive
beauties, which are particularly obvious in the fore-ground, for she
strews them at your feet; then if you approach the artist's effort, a work
of patient diligence, you can hold converse with her through the medium of
his labors.

I do not attempt to deny the importance of size in winning our first
regard: it is a law inseparable from the thing itself; but I must protest
against the taste of the age being supplied always with mere physical
attributes. The purling stream and babbling brook; the small rill falling
from on high, till its feathery stream is lost in mist, are and should be
as much sought after as the roaring torrent or the thundering cascade. The
effect of the one is to produce awe, that of the other tranquil pleasure.
The human mind is not always to be upon the stretch; to remain lifted up
as it were upon stilts; our common communion is to be found in enjoyments
that are quietly exciting. It is a common remark, that the English
language has lost some of its truthfulness by our habit of expressing
ourselves in the language of superlatives, through a desire to astonish.
Thus we leave nothing for the innate love of truth; nothing to work out
the necessary sympathy. Is not this parallel with the desire to see large
pictures?--and should it not receive some regulation from those who have
the requisite influence?

I find the few hints to which in the outset I proposed to confine myself
have grown to a greater length than was intended. I will therefore, in
closing, simply reiterate the remark, that I see no good reason why the
painter of a large picture (or the work itself) should be regarded with
more favor than he who paints equally well, but limits the size, unless we
consider the white-wash brush a nobler instrument than the camel's-hair
pencil.




LIFE: A SONNET.


  Whence? whither? where?--a taper-point of light,
    My life and world--the infinite around;
    A sea, not even highest thought can sound;
  A formless void; unchanging, endless night.
  In vain the struggling spirit aims its flight
    To the empyrean, seen as is a star,
    Sole glimmering through the hazy night afar;
  In vain it beats its wings with daring might.
  What yonder gleams?--what heavenly shapes arise
    From out the bodiless waste? Behold the dawn,
    Sent from on high! Uncounted ages gone,
  Burst full and glorious on my wondering eyes;
    Sun-clear the world around, and far away
    A boundless future sweeps in golden day.

                                                       J. G. PERCIVAL.




TWO PICTURES.

    'The glory of the celestial is one, and the glory of the
    terrestrial is another.'--ST. PAUL.


LOVE CELESTIAL.

  I see his face illumined by a beatific light,
  That tells me he is dying fast; the shadows of the night
  Are passing from his saintly brow and sunken eye away,
  But he looks beyond them and beholds a never-ending day.

  Nay, wonder not that I am calm; the fleeting things of earth
  Are passing with the flight of time, to their eternal birth:
  I feel that death will shed on him a halo like the sun,
  And I shall share it with him, when my pilgrimage is done.

  How quickly fades the earthly frame, and with it too, how fast
  The agony and sorrow of our mortal doom are past;
  And when the sight of worldly wo weighs heavy on the breast,
  How welcome is the voice from GOD, that speaks to us of rest!

  O! painfully the pangs of life his fading frame have worn,
  But blessed be our FATHER'S love, that dwells with those who mourn;
  And though the grave must rend apart our sweet affection's bond,
  On this side is the night, but all is luminous beyond.

  I know that more he loves my soul than its transitory shrine,
  And did I prize the vase alone, when all it held was mine?
  Let hallowed dust return to dust, give Nature what she gave,
  For all that dearest was to me, is victor o'er the grave.

  Triumphant will his spirit rise to the Eternal throne,
  Triumphant wear a crown of light, by earthly trials won:
  And mid the friends who went before, the angel, sin-forgiven,
  Shall feel that they can part no more, when once they meet in heaven.

  True, I shall look on him no more, but he will gaze on me;
  Sweet thought! he from his holy sphere my guiding-star will be,
  Till purified; and hallowed from every earthly tie,
  I share with him that smile of GOD, which lights the world on high!


LOVE TERRESTRIAL.

  They tell me he is dying, yet I look upon his brow,
  And never seemed it half so fair, so beautiful as now;
  A radiance lightens from his eye, too lovely for the tomb,
  Too _living_, for the shadowy realm where all is grief and gloom.

  They tell me he will surely die--and so at last must all;
  I know that the Destroyer's blight on all mankind must fall;
  Alas! that we of mortal birth thus hurry to decay,
  And all we fondly cherish here must fleet so fast away!

  But oh, not now! it is indeed a fearful sight to see
  The pangs of death their shadows fling on one so dear to me;
  Nay, speak not of another world, I only think of this,
  I have no heart to nurse the hope that looks to future bliss.

  Perhaps 'tis time; he is not formed for length of happy years,
  But wherefore darken thus my days with wild distracting fears?
  If we must part, oh! let me live in rapture while I may;
  Though hope must darken, while it lasts, let nothing cloud its ray.

  Oh, bid me cherish brighter thoughts; my loving soul can tell
  How sad will be the hour to him that speaks the last farewell;
  I know his heart is agonized by the approaching doom,
  I know he loves me better than the cold and fearful tomb!

  It is in vain they speak to me of bliss beyond the sky;
  This saddening thought afflicts my heart, that if indeed he die,
  The light that cheered my earthly love will seem obscure and dim,
  While he abides in purer realms, and I still live for him.

  I know that holier hopes and joys around his soul will weave,
  While he among angelic loves, unconscious that I grieve,
  Will ne'er look down to see me weep, nor breathe a single sigh;
  O, GOD! it is a fearful thought--and this it is to die!

                                                                    B.




THE HERMIT OF THE PRAIRIE.

BY PETER VON GEIST.

      'To him who in the love of nature holds
      Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
      A various language.'

                                                               BRYANT.


Wednesday, June twenty-first. How little do people who ride along in their
carriages, or rattle over the ground in stage-coaches, or rush over its
surface in rail-cars, know of the pleasures of travelling! They roll
_over_ the country; they cannot be said to pass _through_ it. They may see
new rivers, new mountains, and new faces; but for all the good the last
does them, they might as well have stood on the corner of the street in a
city half a day, and watched the passers-by. And better too; for
hotel-keepers, and waiters, and the whole tribe of public functionaries,
have all an artificial, professional look; so that it is difficult to come
at their real characters, if indeed they have any. The same is the case,
to some extent, with their fellow-passengers. All are so absorbingly
interested in their own brilliant thoughts; or they deem it incumbent on
them to assume the dignity and authority befitting persons in high
stations; (which dignity at home, by the by, is put one side into a dark
corner and never thought of,) that it is about as profitable an
undertaking to attempt to find out the personal feelings and sentiments of
a mask, as theirs.

But here am I, walking stoutly and merrily along, unincumbered with
luggage or care; and because I do not care what the next day or hour may
bring forth, every thing seems to turn up just as I would have it if I had
the ordering of events. I shall not pause to offer any philosophical
conjectures as to the reason why we are invariably disappointed in our
conclusions, (excepting they are mathematical ones) concerning the future;
merely asking the amiable reader whether _he_ ever knew such an
anticipation to be exactly realized. I shall not stop to make any such
conjectures, because I should only get deeper into the dark, and I am in
deep enough for comfort now; and secondly, it is against my principles. I
am living out of doors, and make mention only of things out of doors.

But I trudge stoutly forward, whistling as I go; making myself as
agreeable as possible to myself and to every body whom I meet; on jocose
terms with every thing; decidedly agricultural in my tastes and pursuits,
at every farmer's house where I happen to put up for the night: at one
place in search of employment as a day-laborer; at another, an artist; by
turns every thing. Is not this the way to travel? My steps wander where
they choose; and if I keep on to the end of the earth, what will it
matter? I will go to the north; assume the dress, language and manners of
those who dwell within the frozen circle; I will become a Greenlander; I
will go and preach the religion of Mohammed to the inhabitants of
Patagonia; I will brush up the gods of Rome; dust that old mythology;
compound and simplify the whole into a good, comfortable, believable
system, and proclaim Olympian Jove in the deserts of Amazonia. I will be a
Turk, an Indian, a Pirate; I will be any thing. What do I care, and who
shall say me nay? This sensation of freedom is too delicious to be
interrupted by any companionship. And for my part, I want no better
companions than this wind, which free as I am, blows against my cheek, and
those clouds, that fly in unending succession over my head. O! ye blue
chariots of the Thunderer! whither hurry ye so rapidly? Over hill and
valley, and countries and cities of men, ye fly unheeding; and borne
forward on the swift pinions of the wind, ye speed on your mission afar!
What to you are states, and kingdoms, or land or ocean? Furiously driving
in black armies to meet opposing armies, or singly floating in that
waveless sea of blue, your existence is above the earth; men look _up_ to
you with wonder or terror, but _your_ glance is never downward. Onward ye
wander, in your unbounded career, at your own free will. Nothing bounds
_my_ career or _my_ will. Fleecy ears! if ye would sustain the form of a
mortal, triumphantly would you and I sail over the heads of men! Softly,
obedient to the impulse of chance, would we glide over continent and sea,
and explore the mysteries of undiscovered islands and climes; calmly would
I look down on the strife or toil of human passions, and calmly would we
ride on forever, through night and day! But if the clouds are not, the
earth is, mine--and I am my own! There are none to molest or make me
afraid with the useless importunities or warnings of friendship. My
destiny is my own; and it is pleasant not to care what I may be or do.
Pleasure is now; sorrow is prospective; and life will be only pleasure,
because I let the past and the future go, and crowd as many happy thoughts
as possible into the present moment.

What a spacious plain of the world! Dotted with habitations and with men
of all colors, and customs, and conditions! Every one thinks he possesses
a soul; and in virtue thereof, he considers himself entitled to set up as
an independent existence, and endeavors to move in a little path of his
own. But in fact, he plods humbly along, and repeats with patient toil the
example of labor and unspeculating perseverance that his fathers have set
him. A vast multitude, they darken the land! Mighty hopes and aspirations
swell each small bosom. Each imagines that his designs are peculiar, and
for him in particular was every thing mainly made. An unceasing rush of
footsteps and clash of voices! And must I be confounded in the crowd? Let
me preserve my individuality in the desert! If I were not an insect, it
might be different; but as I am no larger than other men, I will not daily
measure myself by their standard; I will forget in solitude the littleness
of my stature.

The shades of evening tinge the green of the fields with a darker hue; and
the young farmer goes wearily and yet lightly homeward. Lightly, for he
leaves behind him labor and trouble, and his fair-haired wife will greet
him with her constant and love-lit smile. Cheerily will the small family
draw around their board, covered with the simple and satisfying products
of their own soil. And when all care is ended, when night is duskily
stealing over the earth, he and his bride will sit down alone in their
cottage door, in the red light of the western clouds. Over all the dim
landscape there are no sights or sounds; and in themselves there are no
feelings but those of contentment and love. In his strong palm her soft
hand, on his broad breast reclining her head, their hearts are filled and
overflow with sweet thoughts and gentle words of present happiness. Fair
prospects also of the future rise up before them. Many years crowned with
prosperity they see in store for them; and in each one, many an evening
like this, of deep confiding love. Hour after hour, into the deepening
night, their low tones and slow words murmur on brokenly; and they know of
nothing in all the world that is wanting to their blessedness. What if the
dream should last all their life? It may; or if this passes away, another
will take its place. The question then seems to be, whether it is better
to live in a delusion and be happy, or to wake and be miserable? Whether
it is profitable for a man to walk joyfully through life, covering and
coloring over every defect in human nature that he may love it, and keep
within him a contented heart, or industriously spy out its deformities,
and hate it and himself for possessing it? If nature is in reality naked
and rugged, happy is he whose imagination can throw over her a robe of
grace. Most happy he who _can_ see in his fellow-creatures such qualities
that he can love them. For me, I will love sterner scenes and sterner
thoughts. Human beauty is an illusion; and it does not become the sober
wisdom of manhood to be deceived by it. The young farmer and his young
wife may be happy; and so may those who find delight in the crowded hall
where taste and beauty meet; where are the sounds of clear-ringing,
girlish voices, and many glancing feet, and the innumerable light of
maiden's eyes, and heavy folds of auburn hair, and the flush of thought
and emotion continually passing over fair faces, with the swell of music
that thrills, and the air laden with fragrance that intoxicates. Or in the
still twilight, by the side of her whose every note makes his pulse to
tremble with the breathing of song, and the incense of flowers, and
forgetfulness of the world, to feel the thought stealing over his heart
that perhaps he is not uncared for. It is sweet, but vain; sweet and vain
as the smiling, blushing slumber of a young girl. Dream on! dream on! for
if you can always sleep, what will matter to you the storms and confusion
without?

But as for me, I cannot sleep. Every thing my eye rests on is harsh and
ungraceful, because, having passed through the seven-times heated furnace,
I _must_ look through the covering and see the reality.


MOONLIGHT ON THE RIVER AND PRAIRIE.

Wearily I mount this steep eminence, and on its bald summit take off my
hat, that I may feel the cool breeze. It comes fresh with the dew that it
has snatched in its flight from the bosom of Lake Superior. It rolls over
the tall grass of the prairie, which bends beneath its weight, sighs by
me, and seems to cling to me as it passes, and moves on toward the arid
plains of the South. The Ohio sweeps down in calmness and majesty. With
its surface of quicksilver, and the little waves dancing up in gladness,
and its heavy dull wash, it rolls along its mighty mass of waters,
hastening to pour itself into the mightier mass of the Mississippi.
Occasionally a giant tree, torn from its place, and cast root and branch
into the flood, comes booming down, and glides swiftly past on its long,
long race. Pleasantly the ripples break over the prostrate monarch of the
forest that is lodged against the beach, and projects, branchless and
barkless, into the stream; and mournfully the worn trunk sways up and
down, as though tired of this rocking which has continued the same year
after year; weary, and desiring to be at rest. Floods come rushing down
upon floods with heavy tread, glance successively under the moonlight that
is poured into the channel before me, and then are forced forward into the
darkness of the future. But every wave seems as full of joy as though for
it alone was the moonlight sent, and as though there were not unnumbered
millions of waves to succeed it. Every little wave leaps up as it comes
under the light, and smiles toward the round-faced orb above, who seems to
smile back upon it. Thou small thing, thou art a fool! The queen, in the
beam of whose countenance thou disportest thyself, is altogether deceitful
and loves thee not. She has smiled as kindly on thousands who have gone
before thee, and will upon thousands who shall come after thee. And more
than all, she would send down just as bright and loving a glance, if thou
and all thy race had never existed. How then canst thou say, 'I love her,'
or, 'she loves me?'

But perhaps it is not so. When I look again, each one of the great
multitude appears aware of its own insignificance. Jostled, confined,
crowded and confused, they go tumbling by, regardless of all above or
below, and engrossed with their own fleeting existence. Not remembering
whence they came, they take no thought of the present, and are utterly
careless of the future. For what would it profit? Their business, and it
is business enough, is to dispute and fight with each other for room to
move in. All thoughts as to whither they are hastening, must be doubtful,
angry and despairing; and care of any thing present, except what concerns
the present instant, would be useless. Therefore they resign themselves to
be drawn onward and downward unresistingly; and therein are they wise. But
whether joyful, or despairing, or not feeling at all, the waters roll by,
an unceasing flood; and with their rushing dull roar in my ear, my eye
rests on a scene of beauty and quietness. Far away to the northward and
westward, and still farther away, stretches an immense plain. Rolling
hillocks, like the waves of the sea after a storm, and at long intervals,
a few stunted shrubs, alone diversify the prospect. Vast, unmeasured,
Nature's unenclosed meadow, the prairie, is spread out! The tall grass
waves gently and rustlingly to the breeze; and down upon it settles the
moonlight, in a dim silver-gossamer veil, like that which to the mind's
eye is thrown over the mountains and ruins and castles of the Old World,
by the high-born daring and graces of chivalry, the wand of Genius, and
the lapse of solemn years. With the same painful feeling of boundlessness,
of vastness that will not be grasped by the imagination, that one feels in
sailing on the ocean, there is also an air of still, stern desolation
brooding upon the plain. It may be that at some former day, the punishment
of fire swept over it, consuming its towering offspring, and laying bare
and scorching its bosom; and now the proud sufferer, naked and chained,
endures the summer's heat and the winter's storms, with no sighing herbage
or wailing tree to tell to the winds its wo.

A single snow-white cloud slumbers and floats far up in the heavens; the
moon is gliding slowly down the western arch; and the vast dome, studded
with innumerable brilliants, 'fretted with golden fires,' rests its
northern and western edge on the plain, its southern on blue
mountain-tops, its eastern on the forests, and shuts us, the river, the
prairie, the moon and I, together and alone. And here will we dwell
together alone! Sweet companions will ye be to me; and standing here on
this eminence, I promise to love you. I promise to come here often, and to
hold communion with you. I will put away all thoughts of sorrow, all
swellings of bitterness, from my mind. Contentedly, calmly, unheedingly,
will we let the years pass by; for what will it matter to us? Oh! ye are
dear to me! Your _voice_ is not heard, yet comes there constantly to my
ear the murmur of your song. You speak to me in music and poetry; and
while I listen, my thoughts revert only with shuddering to the vain world
I have left behind. Thus let us converse always. This vaulted firmament
which shuts down upon us now, let it be immoveable, and enclose us
forever; here let the wanderings of the wanderer cease, and here will we
live together and alone!

       *       *       *       *       *

And we _have_ lived here many years. The lessons of my constant companions
have calmed and elevated me to a gentler and better spirit. From them I
have learned humility as well as self-reliance; while from the history of
the actions and thoughts of men in past ages, I have learned perhaps
something of the machinery of human nature. The forms of the noblest of
preceding generations, and the shapes of beauty which their imaginations
have conceived and made to live, visit me at my bidding. But among all the
pictures that daily rise up before my eyes, the brightest, the most
beautiful, the most loved, are the sweet faces of the friends of my early
years. There are no regrets or repinings when I look back now; it must be
that it has all been for the best, that every thing is for the best, and I
am at peace. The recollection of madness and folly, of a life useless, of
energies wasted, do not disturb the calmness of my soul. The error has
been great, but I feel it; and in the next state of existence I shall be
wiser and more active. If I have wantonly and recklessly turned away from
the offered happiness of society and of the world, it has, in the end,
been better for me, for I have found another, a purer and more lasting.

Thus I look cheerfully on, and see the sands of my life run out. They fall
faster and faster, as their number is diminished, and time flies by me
with constantly accelerating speed. 'Oh, my days are swifter than a
weaver's shuttle!'--the _last one_ I see but a little distance before me;
it will soon be here; and I shall step forth with a joyful, courageous
heart, into the indistinct, dimly-revealed future!




TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.

BY REV. GEORGE W. BETHUNE.


  Suffenus, whom we both have known so well,
  No other man in manners can excel;
  Facetious, courteous, affable, urbane.
  The world's approval he is sure to gain.
  But, would you think it? he has now essayed
  To be a bard, and countless verses made;
  Perhaps ten thousand, perhaps ten times more,
  For none but he could ever count them o'er;
  Not scribbled down on scraps, as one does when
  In careless rhymes we only try our pen,
  But in a gilt-edged book, all richly bound,
  The writing ornate with a care profound,
  Rich silken cords to mark each favorite part,
  The cover, ev'n, a monument of art.
  Yet as you read, Suffenus, who till then
  Seemed the most pleasant of all gentlemen,
  Becomes offensive as the country boor,
  Who milks rank goats beside his cottage door,
  Or digs foul ditches: such a change is wrought
  By rhymes with neither sense nor music fraught.
  So crazed is he with this same wretched rhyme,
  That never does he know so blest a time
  As when he writes away, and fondly deems
  He rivals Homer's god-enraptured dreams;
  And wonders in his pride, himself to see,
  The very pattern-pink of poesy.
  Alas! Suffenus, while I laugh at thee,
  The world, for aught I know, may laugh at me.
  It is the madness of each one to pride
  Himself on that 'twere better far to hide;
  Nor know the faults in that peculiar sack
  Which Ęsop says is hanging at his back.




THE PAINTED ROCK.

BY CHARLES F. POWELL.


The tract of country through which meanders the Tennessee river, for wild,
sublime and picturesque scenery, is scarcely surpassed by any in the
United States. This river was anciently called the Hogohege, and also
Cherokee river: it takes its rise in the mountains of Virginia, in the
thirty-seventh degree of latitude, and pursues a course of one thousand
miles south and south-west nearly to the thirty-fourth degree of latitude,
receiving from both sides large tributary streams. It then changes its
direction to the north, circuitously winding until it mingles with the
waters of the Ohio, sixty miles from its mouth. There is a place near the
summit of the Cumberland mountains, which extends from the great Kenhawa
to the Tennessee, where there is a very remarkable ledge of rocks, thirty
miles in length and nearly two hundred feet high, showing a perpendicular
face to the south-east, which for grandeur and magnificence surpass any
fortification of art in the known world. It has been the modern
hypothesis, that all the upper branches of the Tennessee formerly forced
their way through this stupendous pile.

On the Tennessee, about four hundred and fifty miles from its mouth, and
nearly two hundred above what is called Muscle-Shoals, there is another
ledge of rocks stretching along the shore to the extent of one mile, with
a perpendicular front toward the river, of the most perfect regularity.
This ledge varies in height from thirty to three hundred feet, being much
the highest at the centre, and diminishing at each end into ragged cliffs
of rock and broken land. This variegated surface extends for many miles,
affording a constant succession of fanciful and romantic views. The whole
rocky formation in this vicinity is composed of a light gray lime-stone,
indented with broad dark lines formed by the dripping of the water which
falls from the scanty covering of soil on the top to the deep channel
below. The thin surface of soil sustains a shabby, stinted growth of fir,
oak, and other trees, which seldom grow above the height of tall
shrubbery. From the crevices of the rock also may occasionally be seen a
tree of diminutive dimensions springing out with scarcely a particle of
visible sustenance for its roots. The shrubbery upon the peak of this
acclivity presents a curious appearance as it hangs over the ascent, not
unlike the bushy eye-brows of a sullen and frowning face. With this ledge
of rocks terminate the Cumberland mountains, which cross the State of
Tennessee to the margin of the river. The stream here flows nearly west,
through a beautiful valley of alluvial land, formed by the Cumberland
mountains and a continuation of the Blue Ridge of Virginia. Immediately
opposite the termination of the Cumberland mountains commences a broken
and rocky surface, which extends along the shore of the river for many
miles, presenting the most varied and novel scenery in nature; while the
other shore is level, fertile, and mostly in a high state of cultivation,
abounding in verdant fields of meadow, corn and tobacco.

The middle portion of the ledge _proper_, which I have described, rises
nearly or quite three hundred feet above the level of the river; a vast
wall of solid lime-stone, echoing with never-ceasing moans the gurgling
current of the river, which at this place is deep and very rapid; and has
worn a series of caves and hollows in the base of the rock, which
contribute greatly to this 'language of the waters.'

The summit or peak of this ledge in the centre is called '_The Painted
Rock_.' It is so called from the fact of there being, about sixty feet
below the highest peak, letters and characters painted in different
colors, and evidently drawn by a tutored hand. What is most remarkable,
these paintings are upon the perpendicular face of the rock, probably two
hundred feet above the river, and in a place where there is no apparent
possibility for mortal man to arrive. They are composed of the initials of
two persons, together with characters and drawings, some of which are
illegible from the river. The first consists of the letters 'J. W. H.,'
quite well done in dark blue or green paint. The next is 'A. L. S.,' done
in red, and also a trefoil leaf of clover in green, beside several rude
characters and drawings in blue and red. The traveller passing this
interesting spot gazes with wonder and astonishment, but is referred to
tradition for a history of the circumstances which led to the name of
Painted Rock; for the paintings were drawn and the name given, long before
the country was permanently settled by the whites. The story handed down
is this:

The original possessors of the soil in this part of the country were the
tribes of Cherokee and Chicasaw Indians. The country was explored as early
as 1745, by a company who had grants of land from the government, and
settlements commenced previous to the French war. Of the first-comers of
whites there were not more than sixty families, who were either destroyed
or driven off before the end of the following year. Some few families had
settled at a place not far distant from the Painted Rock, where lived a
Cherokee Sagamore, named Shagewana, whose tribe was considered the most
inhuman of any in the nation. The top of the rock is flat, and slopes back
from the river, and at the base is a large spring surrounded by bushes.
Shagewana occupied the summit of the acclivity as his council-ground; and
when danger was apprehended from the whites, or when an innovation was
made on his limits, he forthwith called his warriors together for
consultation, and set fire to faggots and other combustibles as a signal
for his neighbors to advance to his aid. The whites settled near the
Painted Rock at this time were mostly composed of traders, who had brought
various articles of clothing and ornaments to dispose of to the Indians;
and under the assurance of the Chicasaws, who rarely commenced the work of
destruction on the whites, that they should be unmolested, built up a
cluster of huts, and cleared a small territory for the raising of corn and
other vegetables.

Shagewana from some cause became incensed toward them, and resolved to
burn the buildings and destroy their inhabitants. He called his people
together, and the war-cry was sounded throughout the mountains. Taking
advantage of the night, they surrounded the settlement, and applying
torches to the dwellings, rushed into the midst with tomahawk in hand, and
murdered all save two young men, who fought so bravely that they spared
their lives in order to torture them with more prolonged sufferings. The
names of these young men it is said were HARRIS and SNELLING. They were
bound and taken to the rock, where the savages went through a dance, as
was their custom after a victory had been achieved; and as day-light
advanced, they prepared a feast. Harris and Snelling were placed under
keepers, who amused themselves by tormenting their unhappy prisoners in
various ways; such as pricking them with their knives, cutting off small
pieces of their ears and fingers, and pulling out clumps of their hair.
Before the close of the day, the captives feigning sleep, the Indians left
them for a moment and went to the spring for water. Thereupon the young
men burst their bands and escaped into the bushes. Crawling upon the other
side of the rock, and being hotly pursued, it is supposed that they were
forced upon a narrow projection, about twelve inches wide, and four feet
below the inscription, where with some paint or coloring substance which
they carried about them they traced the characters to which we have
referred, and which have given the place the name of 'THE PAINTED ROCK.'
The fate of the young men is not positively known; but it is believed that
they were discovered and hurled down the precipice.




LINES TO J. T. OF IRELAND.

BY THE AUTHOR OF 'HINTS ON ETIQUETTE.'


  A heartless flirt! with false and wicked eye,
  Dost thou not feel thyself a living lie?
  Dost thou not hear the 'still small voice' upbraid
  Thy inmost conscience for the part thou'st played?
  How mean the wish to victimize that one
  Who ne'er had wooed thee, hadst thou not begun!
  Who mark'd with pain thy saddened gaze on him,
  Doom'd but to fall a martyr to thy whim;
  Whose pallid cheek might win a fiend to spare,
  Or soothe the sorrows that had blanched his hair:
  Oh, cold-laid plan! drawn on from day to day
  To meet the looks thou failed not to display,
  Seeking at such a price another's peace,
  To feed the cravings of thy vain caprice;
  Led him to think that thou wert all his own,
  Then froze his passion with a heart of stone.
  Lured by thy wiles, he gave that holiest gift,
  A noble soul, before he saw thy drift;
  He watched thy bosom heave, he heard thee sigh,
  Nor deem'd such looks could cover treachery;
  That one so proud _could_ stoop to simulate
  The purest feelings of this earthly state.
  Yet words were useless, where no sense of blame
  Could start a tear, nor tinge thy cheek with shame.
  More merciful than thou to him, he prays
  No pangs like his may wound thy lingering days;
  Implores thy sins to him may be forgiven,
  And leaves thee to the clemency of Heaven.

                                                            C. W. DAY.




LITERARY NOTICES.


 POEMS BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. In one volume. pp. 279. Cambridge: JOHN
 OWEN. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

Two years ago Mr. LOWELL presented the public with a volume of poems,
which after being read and blamed and praised with a most bewildering
variety of opinion, lived through it all, and remained as a permanent
specimen of unformed but most promising genius. Modest however as the
offering was, it was duly valued by discerning judges, not so much for its
own ripe excellence, as for its appearing a happy token of something else.
In the major part of the annual soarings into _Cloud-land_ which alarm the
world, we seem to see the sum total of the aspirant's power. We feel that
he has shown us _all_, and done his best; that the force of his cleverness
could go no farther; and we are willing to give him his penny of praise,
and thereby purchase a pleasant oblivion of him and his forevermore. In
this attempt of Mr. LOWELL'S it was impossible not to see that there lay
more beyond. We felt that however boldly he might have dived, he did not
yet 'bring up the bottom,' as the swimmer's phrase goes. The faults of his
poems were perceptible enough, yet even these were the blemishes of latent
strength, and the book was every where welcomed with a hope. We have now
to notice the appearance of a second proof of Mr. LOWELL'S activity of
faculty, in another and larger volume. It confirms the faith of those who
read the former one. There is, throughout, the manifestation of growth; of
a continuous advance toward a more decided character. Yet it is not
without incompleteness of expression; it smacks of immaturity still; but
it is the immaturity which presages a man.

The longest, and although not the most pleasing, yet perhaps the best poem
in the volume is the 'Legend of Brittany,' a romantic story, fringed with
rhyme. It contains but one bad line, and that one the first in the book:
'Fair as a summer dream was MARGARET.' It is not only vague, but
common-place: there is no particular reason that we know of why a summer
dream should be fairer than a winter dream; and we cannot think that the
poet meant to make use of that figure of speech called _amphibology_,
although the line will bear a double interpretation. The legend is of the
guilty amour of MORDRED, a Knight Templar, with a fair innocent who, upon
the point of becoming a mother, is slain by her lover at evening, in the
wood. Hereupon---- But let the poet speak:

  His crime complete, scarce knowing what he did,
    (So goes the tale,) beneath the altar there
  In the high church the stiffening corpse he hid,
    And then, to 'scape that suffocating air,
  Like a scared ghoule out of the porch he slid;
    But his strained eyes saw blood-spots everywhere,
  And ghastly faces thrust themselves between
  His soul and hopes of peace with blasting mien.

It should be observed that Mordred, bound as a Templar by the strictest
laws of chastity, is aiming at the 'high grand-mastership,' and
consequently suffers not only the remorse of the murderer, but the dread
of that defeat which his ambition must encounter in the discovery of his
deed. His character is ably delineated; perhaps too nicely drawn, for so
brief a tale, since the interest momentarily awakened in the 'dark, proud
man,'

        ----'whose half-blown youth
  Had shed its blossoms even in opening,'

is immediately lost in the horror of the catastrophe. But to pursue the
outline of the story:

  Now, on the second day, there was to be
    A festival in church: from far and near
  Came flocking in the sun-burnt peasantry,
    And knights and dames with stately antique cheer,
  Blazing with pomp, as if all faėrie
    Had emptied her quaint halls, or, as it were,
  The illuminated marge of some old book,
  While we were gazing, life and motion took.

       *     *     *     *     *

  Then swelled the organ: up through choir and nave
    The music trembled with an inward thrill
  Of bliss at its own grandeur: wave on wave
    Its flood of mellow thunder rose, until
  The hushed air shivered with the throb it gave,
    Then, poising for a moment, it stood still,
  And sank and rose again, to burst in spray
    That wandered into silence far away.

The whole of the description of this choir-service is equally beautiful
with these stanzas; yet it may be objected that it in some degree impedes
the progress of narration; and the tale is of that sort which will scarce
brook any delay in the telling. But to continue. During the chanting, a
breathless pause comes over the congregation; the music hushes; all eyes
are drawn by some strange impulse toward the altar; and while all is mute
and watchful, the voice of Margaret is heard from heaven, imploring a
baptism for her unborn babe. The author himself cannot feel more sensibly
than ourselves the injustice of thus patching together the beauteous
fragments of his sorrowful and melodious history in so hugger-mugger a
way; but MAGA is peremptory, and hints to us that we cannot command the
scope of the 'Edinburgh Review:' The voice ceases to thrill the wondering
multitude, and the poet thus proceeds:

  Then the pale priests, with ceremony due
    Baptized the child within its dreadful tomb,
  Beneath that mother's heart, whose instinct true
    Star-like had battled down the triple gloom
  Of sorrow, love, and death: young maidens, too,
    Strewed the pale corpse with many a milk-white bloom,
  And parted the bright hair, and on the breast
  Crossed the unconscious hands in sign of rest.

It is an indication of Mr. LOWELL'S capabilities for a more extended theme
that the second part of this poem is superior to the first. It is not
merely that the interest of the story increases, but the verse is more
compressed, the expressions are more graphic, and the flow of the stanza
is finer and more natural. The opening lines are as vivid and impressive
as a passage from Tasso:

  'As one who, from the sunshine and the green,
    Enters the solid darkness of a cave,
  Nor knows what precipice or pit unseen
    May yawn before him with its sudden grave,
  And, with hushed breath, doth often forward lean,
    Deeming he hears the plashing of a wave
  Dimly below, or feels a damper air
  From out some dreary chasm, he knows not where;
    So from the sunshine and the green of Love,
  We enter on our story's darker part,' etc.

The faults of the whole production are the necessary ones of all young
writers of original power; a too ready faculty of imitation, and a lack of
conciseness. The poets whom Mr. LOWELL mostly reminds us of, in his
faults, are SHELLY and SHAKSPEARE; the juvenile SHAKSPEARE, we
mean--SHAKSPEARE the sonnetteer. Both in the 'Revolt of Islam' and
'Tarquin and Lucrece,' blemishes resembling his own constantly occur. It
will nevertheless be gratifying to his many ardent admirers to perceive
that on the whole he has exhibited a more definite approach to what he is
capable of accomplishing, and that in proportion as he has grown less
vague and ethereal, less fond of personifying sounds and sentiments, so
has he advanced toward a more manly and enduring standard of excellence.
'Prometheus' is the next longest poem, and it has afforded us great
gratification. It might almost be mistaken for the breath of ĘSCHYLUS,
except that it contains sparkles of freedom that even the warm soul of the
Greek could never have felt. The first two lines glitter with light:

  'One after one the stars have risen and set,
  Sparkling upon the hoar-frost on my chain.'

Although, rhyme is no tyrant to our poet, yet he seems to take a fuller
swing when free from its influence; and the verse which he employs for the
vehicle of his thoughts in this genuine poem is peculiarly adapted to the
grandeur and dignity of his subject. This composition will stand the true
test of poetry; a test which many immortal verses cannot abide, for it
will bear translation into prose without loss of beauty or power: it
contains more thoughts than lines, and although abounding in high poetic
imaginings, the spirit of true philosophy which it contains is superior to
the poetry.

Of Mr. LOWELL'S shorter specimens we may remark, in contradistinction to
what has been said of the Legend of Brittany, that so far as they resemble
the _kind_ of his former productions, so far in short as they are
re-castings of himself, they do him injustice. We now feel that he is
capable of stronger and loftier efforts, and are unwilling to overlook in
his later compositions the flaws that are wilfully copied from his own
volume. The public demand that he should go onward, and not wander back to
dally among flowers that have been plucked before, and were then accepted
for their freshness. He must devote himself to subjects of wider
importance, and give his imaginations a more permanent foothold upon the
hearts of men. His love-poems, though many of them would have added grace
to his _first_ collection, fail to excite our admiration _equally_ in
this. We do not say that he had exhausted panegyric before; far less would
we insinuate that passion itself is exhaustible; and yet there is a point
where to pause might be more graceful than to go on: '_Sunt certi denique
fines._' Did any one ever wish that even PETRARCH had written more? Mr.
LOWELL then ought to consider this, and begin to build upon a broader
foundation than his own territory, beautiful as it may be, of private and
personal fancies and affections. Perhaps there is no exception to the law
that love should always be the first impulse that leads an ardent soul to
poesy. (By poesy we do not mean school-exercises, and prize heroics
approved by a committee of literary gentlemen.) On this account, it may
be, that a young poet is always anxious to walk upon the ground where he
first felt his strength, considering that a minstrel without love were as
powerless, to adopt the Rev. SIDNEY SMITH'S jocose but not altogether
clerical illustration, as Sampson in a wig. Mr. LOWELL evinces the firmest
faith in his passion, which is evidently as sincere as it is
well-bestowed. It is from this perhaps that he derives a corresponding
faith in his productions, which always seems proportionate to his love of
his subject. Let him be assured however that he is not always the
strongest when he feels the most so, nor must he mistake the absence of
this feeling for a symptom of diminished power. Should he be at any time
inclined to such a self-estimate, let him refer his judgment to his
'Prometheus' and 'Rhoecus.' In his 'Ode' also, and his 'Glance behind the
Curtain,' there is much to embolden him toward the highest endeavors in
what he would perhaps disdain to call his Art. Poesy, notwithstanding,
_is_ an _Art_, which even HORACE and DRYDEN did not scorn to consider
such; and our poet ought to remember that he is bound not only to utter
his own sentiments and fantasies according to his own impulse, but
moreover to consult in some degree the ears of the world: the poet's task
is double; to speak FROM himself indeed, but TO the hearing of others. The
contempt which a man of genius feels for the mere mechanicism of verse and
rhyme may naturally enough lead him to affect an inattention to it; but in
this he only benefits the school of smoother artists by allowing them at
least _one_ superiority. If he accuses them of being silly, they can
retort that he is ugly.

Our author in this second volume has given the small carpers who pick at
the 'eds' of past participles, and stickle for old-fashioned _moon_-shine
instead of moon-_shine_, fewer causes of complaint. His diction is
well-chosen and befitting his themes; and this is a characteristic which
peculiarly marks the true artist, if it does not indicate the true genius.
His execution, his 'style of handling,' is adapted to his subject; an
excellence in which too many artists, whether painters or poets, are sadly
deficient. In this respect his performances and those of his friend PAGE
may be hung together. From the stately and dignified lines of 'Prometheus'
to the jetty, dripping verse of 'The Fountain,' the step is very wide. How
full of sparkling, brilliant effects are these joyous lines?

  Into the sunshine,
    Full of the light,
  Leaping and flashing
    From morn till night!

  Into the moonlight,
    Whiter than snow,
  Waving so flower-like
    When the winds blow!

Mr. LOWELL occasionally makes use of somewhat quaint, Spenserian
expressions, but generally with peculiar effect. His abundant fancy seems
to find its natural garb in the short and expressive phraseology of those
old English writers of whom he manifests on all occasions so thorough an
appreciation. As a sweet specimen, although a careless one, of his power
of combining deep feeling with the most picturesque imagery, we select one
of his lightest touches--'Forgetfulness:'

  There is a haven of sure rest
    From the loud world's bewildering stress:
  As a bird dreaming on her nest,
  As dew hid in a rose's breast,
  As Hesper in the glowing West;
        So the heart sleeps
        In thy calm deeps,
      Serene Forgetfulness!

  No sorrow in that place may be,
    The noise of life grows less and less:
  As moss far down within the sea,
  As, in white lily caves, a bee,
  As life in a hazy reverie;
        So the heart's wave
        In thy dim cave,
      Hushes, Forgetfulness!

  Duty and care fade far away,
    What toil may be we cannot guess:
  As a ship anchored in a bay,
  As a cloud at summer-noon astray,
  As water-blooms in a breezeless day;
        So, 'neath thine eyes,
        The full heart lies,
      And dreams, Forgetfulness!

'The Shepherd of King Admetus' is exceedingly graceful and delicate, but
it is too long to be quoted entire, and too perfect to be disjointed. We
must reluctantly skip 'Fatherland,' 'The Inheritance,' 'The Moon,'
'Rhoecus,' and other favorites, until we come to 'L'Envoi,' where our
author once more throws his arms aloft, free from the incumbrance of
rhyme. This poem is inscribed to 'M. W.,' his heart's idol. The warm
affection which radiates from its lines, it is not to be mistaken, is an
out-flowing of pure human love. Among these personal feelings, touching
which we have 'said our say,' we find the following; which in _one_
respect so forcibly illustrates what we have written within these two
weeks to a western correspondent, that we cannot forbear to quote it here:

  Thou art not of those niggard souls, who deem
  That poesy is but to jingle words,
  To string sweet sorrows for apologies
  To hide the barrenness of unfurnished hearts,
  To prate about the surfaces of things,
  And make more thread-bare what was quite worn out:
  Our common thoughts are deepest, and to give
  Such beauteous tones to these, as needs must take
  Men's hearts their captives to the end of time,
  So that who hath not the choice gift of words
  Takes these into his soul, as welcome friends,
  To make sweet music of his joys and woes,
  And be all Beauty's swift interpreter,
  Links of bright gold 'twixt Nature and his heart
  This is the errand high of Poesy.

       *     *     *     *     *

  They tell us that our land was made for song,
  With its huge rivers and sky-piercing peaks,
  Its sea-like lakes and mighty cataracts,
  Its forests vast and hoar, and prairies wide,
  And mounds that tell of wondrous tribes extinct;
  But Poesy springs not from rocks and woods;
  Her womb and cradle are the human heart,
  And she can find a nobler theme for song
  In the most loathsome man that blasts the sight,
  Than in the broad expanse of sea and shore
  Between the frozen deserts of the poles.
  All nations have their message from on high,
  Each the messiah of some central thought,
  For the fulfilment and delight of Man:
  One has to teach that Labor is divine;
  Another, Freedom; and another, Mind;
  And all, that GOD is open-eyed and just,
  The happy centre and calm heart of all.

It is impossible to read such sentiments as these, without feeling our
hearts open to him who gives them utterance. Mr. LOWELL is one of those
writers who gain admiration for their verses and lovers for themselves. We
can pay him no higher compliment.

There is nothing in the title-page or appearance of this elegant volume to
indicate that it is not published in Cambridge, England; but unlike the
majority of American books of poetry, any page in the work will give out
too strong an odor of Bunker-Hill, though we find no allusion to that
sacred eminence, to allow the reader to remain long in doubt of its
paternity. Although we hold that any writing worthy of being called poetry
must be of universal acceptance, and adapted to the longings and
necessities of the entire human family, as the same liquid element
quenches the thirst of the inhabitants of the tropics and the poles, yet
every age and every clime must of necessity tincture its own productions.
We do not therefore diminish in the slightest degree the high poetical
pretensions of Mr. LOWELL'S poems, when we claim for them a national
character, silent though they be upon 'the stars and stripes,' and a
complexion which no other age of the world than our own could have given.
They are not only American poems, but they are poems of the nineteenth
century. There is a spirit of freedom, of love for GOD and MAN, that
broods over them, which our partiality for our own country makes us too
ready perhaps to claim as the natural offspring of our land and laws. The
volume is dedicated to WILLIAM PAGE, the painter, in a bit of as sweet and
pure language as can be found in English prose. It might be tacked on to
one of DRYDEN'S dedications without creating an incongruous feeling. The
dedication is as honorable to the poet as to the painter. Had all
dedications been occasioned by such feelings as gave birth to this, these
graceful and fitting tributes of affection and gratitude would never have
dwindled away to the cold and scanty lines, like an epitaph on a charity
tomb-stone, in which they appear, when they appear at all, in most modern
books.


  THIRTY YEARS PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS IN ENGLAND AND AMERICA.
  Interspersed with Anecdotes and Reminiscences of a Variety of Persons
  connected with the Drama during the Theatrical Life of JOE COWELL,
  Comedian. Written by himself. In one volume, pp. 103. New-York: HARPER
  AND BROTHERS.

Of all the pages in English memoirs, none are so rich in humor and various
observation as those devoted to the players. CARLYLE somewhere says, that
the _only_ good biographies are those of actors; and he gives for a reason
their want of respectability! Being 'vagabonds' by law in England, the
truth of their histories he tells us is not varnished over by delicate
omissions. The first branch of this assumption is certainly true, whatever
cause may be at the bottom of it; and Mr. COWELL, in the very entertaining
volume before us, has added another proof of the correctness of Herr
TEUFELSDRÖCKH'S flattering conclusions. His narrative is rambling,
various, instructive, and amusing. He plunges at once _in medias res_; and
being in himself an epitome of his class; of their successes, excitements,
reverses and depressions; he paints as he goes along a most graphic
picture of the life of an actor. We shall follow his own desultory method;
and proceed without farther prelude to select here and there a 'bit' from
his well-filled 'budget of fun.' Let us open it with this common portrait
of a vain querulous, complaining Thespian, who is never appreciated, never
rewarded:

    'I was seated in the reading-room of the hotel, thinking away the
    half hour before dinner, when my attention was attracted by a
    singularly-looking man. He was dressed in a green coat,
    brass-buttoned close up to the neck, light gray, approaching to
    blue, elastic pantaloons, white cotton stockings, dress shoes,
    with more riband employed to fasten them than was either useful or
    ornamental; a hat, smaller than those usually worn, placed rather
    on one side of a head of dark curly hair; fine black eyes, and
    what altogether would have been pronounced a handsome face, but
    for an overpowering expression of impudence and vulgarity; a sort
    of footman-out-of-place-looking creature; his hands were thrust
    into the pockets of his coat behind, and in consequence exposing a
    portion of his person, as ridiculously, and perhaps as
    unconsciously, as a turkey-cock does when he intends to make
    himself very agreeable. He was walking rather fancifully up and
    down the room, partly singing, partly whistling '_The Bay of
    Biscay O_,' and at the long-lived, but most nonsensical chorus, he
    shook the fag-ends of his divided coat tail, as if in derision of
    that fatal 'short sea,' so well known and despised in that
    salt-water burial-place. I was pretending to read a paper, when a
    carrier entered, and placed a play-bill before me on the table. I
    had taken it up and began perusing it, when he strutted up, and
    leaning over my shoulder, said:

    ''I beg pardon, Sir; just a moment.'

    'I put it toward him.

    ''No matter, Sir, no matter; I've seen all I want to see; the same
    old two-and-sixpence; _Hamlet, Mr. Sandford_, in large letters;
    _and Laertes, Mr. Vandenhoff_! O----!'

    'And with an epithet not in any way alluding to the 'sweet South,'
    he stepped off to the _Biscay_ tune, allegro. I was amused; and
    perhaps the expression of my face encouraged him to return
    instantly, and with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, for he
    said:

    ''My dear Sir, that's the way the profession is going to the
    devil: here, Sir, is the '_manager_'--with a sneer--'one of the
    d----dest humbugs that ever trod the stage, must have his name in
    large letters, of _course_; and the _and_ Laertes, Mr. Vandenhoff;
    he's a favorite of the Grand Mogul, as we call old Sandford, and
    so he gets all the fat; and d'ye know why he's shoved down the
    people's throats? Because he's so d----d bad the old man shows to
    advantage alongside of him. Did you ever see him?'

    'I shook my head.

    ''Why, Sir, he's a tall, stooping, lantern-jawed,
    asthmatic-voiced, spindle-shanked fellow.' Here he put his foot on
    the rail of my chair, and slightly scratched the calf of his leg.
    'Hair the color of a cock-canary,' thrusting his fingers through
    his own coal-black ringlets; 'with light blue eyes, Sir, trimmed
    with pink gymp. He hasn't been long caught; just from some nunnery
    in Liverpool, or somewhere, where he was brought up as a Catholic
    priest; and here he comes, with his Latin and Lancashire dialect,
    to lick the manager's great toe, and be hanged to him, and gets
    all the business; while men of talent, and nerve, and personal
    appearance,' shifting his hands from his coat-pockets to those of
    his tights, 'who have drudged in the profession for years, are
    kept in the back-ground; 'tis enough to make a fellow swear!'

    ''You, then, Sir, are an actor?' said I, calmly.

    ''An actor! yes, Sir, I am an _actor_, and have been ever since I
    was an infant in arms; played the child that cries in the third
    act of the comedy of 'The Chances,' when it was got up with
    splendor by Old Gerald, at Sheerness, when I was only nine weeks
    old; and I recollect, that is, my mother told me, that I cried
    louder, and more naturally, than any child they'd ever had.
    _That's me_,' said he, pointing to the play-bill--_Horatio, Mr.
    Howard_. 'I _used to make_ a great part of Horatio _once_; and I
    can now send any Hamlet to h-ll in that character, when I give it
    energy and pathos; but this nine-tailed bashaw of a manager
    insists upon my keeping my 'madness in the back-ground,' as he
    calls it, and so I just walk through it, speak the words, and make
    it a poor, spooney, preaching son of a how-came-ye-so, and do no
    more for it than the author has.'

Mr. COWELL subsequently enlists under the same manager, and is received
with great apparent cordiality by the members of his _corps dramatique_:
'The loan of 'properties,' or any thing I have, is perfectly at your
service,' was iterated by all. Howard said: 'My boy, by heavens, I'll lend
you my blue tights; oh, you're perfectly welcome; I don't wear them till
the farce; Banquo's one of my _flesh parts_; nothing like the naked truth;
I'm h--l for nature. By-the-by, you'll often have to wear black smalls and
stockings; I'll put you up to something; save your buying silks, darning,
stitch-dropping, louse-ladders, and all that; grease your legs and
burnt-cork 'em; it looks d----d well 'from the front.'' Mr. COWELL, it
appears, was an artist of no mean pretensions; and while engaged on one
occasion in sketching a picturesque view of Stoke Church, he was
interrupted in rather a novel manner by a brother actor named REYMES,
somewhat akin, we fancy, to his friend HOWARD, albeit 'excellent company:'

    'Several times I was disturbed in my occupation, to look round to
    inquire the cause of a crash, every now and then, like the
    breaking of glass; and at length I caught a glimpse of Reymes,
    slyly jerking a pebble, under his arm, through one of the windows.
    I recollected twice, in walking home with him, late at night, from
    the theatre, his quietly taking a brick-bat from out of his
    coat-pocket and deliberately smashing it through the casement of
    the Town Hall, and walking on and continuing his conversation as
    if nothing had happened. Crack! again. I began to suspect an
    abberration of intellect, and said:

    ''Reymes, for heaven's sake what are you doing?'

    ''Showing my gratitude,' said he; and crack! went another.

    ''Showing the devil!' said I; 'you're breaking the church
    windows.'

    ''Why, I know it--certainly; what do you stare at?' said the
    eccentric. 'I broke nearly every pane three weeks ago; I couldn't
    hit them all. After you have broken a good many, the stones are
    apt to go through the holes you've already made. They only
    finished mending them the day before yesterday; I came out and
    asked the men when they were likely to get done;' and clatter!
    clatter! went another.

    ''That's excellent!' said he, in great glee. 'I hit the frame just
    in the right place; I knocked out two large ones that time.'

    ''Reymes,' said I, with temper, 'if you don't desist, I must leave
    off my drawing.'

    ''Well,' said he, 'only this one,' and crack! it went; 'there!
    I've done. Since it annoys you, I'll come by myself to-morrow and
    finish the job; it's the only means in my power of proving my
    gratitude.'

    ''Proving your folly,' said I. 'Why, Reymes, you must be out of
    your senses.'

    ''Why, did I never tell you?' said he. 'Oh! then I don't wonder at
    your surprise. I thought I had told you. I had an uncle, a
    glazier, who died, and left me twenty pounds, and this
    mourning-ring; and I therefore have made it a rule to break the
    windows of all public places ever since. The loss is not worth
    speaking of to the parish, and puts a nice bit of money in the
    pocket of some poor dealer in putty, with probably a large family
    to support. And now I've explained, I presume you have no
    objection to my proceeding in paying what I consider a debt of
    gratitude due to my dead uncle.'

    ''Hold! Reymes,' said I, as he was picking up a pebble. 'How do
    you know but the poor fellow with the large family may not
    undertake to repair the windows by contract, at so much a year or
    month?'

    ''Eh! egad, I never thought of that,' said the whimsical,
    good-hearted creature. 'I'll suspend operations until I've made
    the inquiry, and if I've wronged him I'll make amends.'

Mr. COWELL is a plain-spoken man, and seldom spares age or sex in his
exposure of the secrets of the stage, and the appliances and means to boot
which are sometimes adopted by theatrical men and women to make an old
face or form 'look maist as weel's the new.' The celebrated Mrs. JORDAN,
in performing with him, was always very averse to his playing near the
foot-lights, greatly preferring to act between the second entrances. The
'moving why' is thus explained:

    'The fact is, she was getting old; dimples turn to crinkles after
    long use; beside, she wore a wig glued on; and in the heat of
    acting--for she was always in earnest--I have seen some of the
    tenacious compound with which it was secured trickle down a
    wrinkle behind her ear; her person, too, was extremely round and
    large, though still retaining something of the outline of its
    former grace:

      'And after all, 't would puzzle to say where
      It would not spoil a charm to pare.'

    There is no calamity in the catalogue of ills 'that flesh is heir
    to' so horrible as the approach of old age to an actor. Juvenile
    tragedy, light comedy, and walking gentleman with little
    pot-bellies, and _have-been_ pretty women, are really to be
    pitied. Fancy a lady, who has had quires of sonnets made to her
    eye-brow, being obliged, at last, to black it, play at the back of
    the stage at night, sit with her back to the window in a shady
    part of the green-room in the morning, and keep on her bonnet
    unless she can afford a very natural wig.'

Sad enough! sad enough! certainly, and as true as it is melancholy. But
let us get on board the Yankee vessel which brings Mr. COWELL to America,
and at _his_ 'present writing' is lying off Gravesend. The difficulty he
experienced in getting up a conversation with his fellow-passengers is a
grievance still loudly complained of by his travelling countrymen:

    'It was a dark, drizzly, melancholy night; a fair specimen of
    Gravesend weather and the parts adjacent; no 'star that's westward
    from the pole' to point my destined path, and furnish food for
    speculative thought; and, after sliding five or six times up and
    down some twenty feet of wet deck, I groped my way to the cabin.
    The captain was not on board, and I found myself a stranger among
    men. Of all gregarious animals man is the most tardy in getting
    acquainted: meet them for the first time in a jury-box, a
    stage-coach, or the cabin of a ship, and they always remind me of
    a little lot of specimen sheep from different flocks, put together
    for the first time in the same pen; they walk about and round and
    round, with all their heads and tails in different directions, and
    not a baa! escapes them; but in half an hour some crooked-pated
    bell-wether perhaps, gives a south-down a little dig in the ribs,
    and this example is followed by a Merino; and before the ending of
    the fair their heads are all one way, and you'll find them
    bleating together in full chorus. Now, in the case of man, a
    snuff-box instead of the sheep's horn, is an admirable
    introduction; for, if he refuses to take a pinch, he'll generally
    give you a sufficient reason why he does not, and that's an
    excellent chance to form, perhaps, a lasting friendship, but to
    scrape an acquaintance to a certainty; and if he takes it perhaps
    he'll sneeze, and you can come in with your 'God bless you!' and
    so on, to a conversation about the plague in '66, or the yellow
    fever on some other occasion, and can 'bury your friends by
    dozens,' and 'escape yourself by a miracle,' very pleasantly for
    half an hour. But in this instance it was a total failure: one
    said 'I don't use it;' another shook his head, and the third
    emptied his mouth of half a pint of spittle, and said 'he thought
    it bad enough to chaw!''

When the vessel is fairly at sea, the social ice is gradually broken. It
being just after the war, the _rationale_ of the following brief dialogue
between Mr. COWELL and the mate will be readily understood:

  'The mate was a weather-beaten, humorous 'sea-monster;' upon asking
  his name, he replied:

  ''If you're an Englishman and I once tell you my name, you'll never
  forget it.'

  ''I don't know that,' I replied; 'I'm very unfortunate in
  remembering names.'

  ''Oh, never mind!' said he, with a peculiarly sly, comical look; 'if
  you're an Englishman you'll never forget mine.'

  ''Then I certainly am,' I replied.

  ''Well, then,' said he drily, 'my name's BUNKER! and I'm d----d if
  any Englishman will ever forget that name!''

Mr. COWELL'S arrival, début, and theatrical progress and associations in
this and other Atlantic towns, compose a diversified and palatable feast
for the stage-loving public. His sketches of actors, male and female,
native and foreign, are limned with an artistical hand. His picture of
KEAN'S fleeing from 'the hot pursuit of obloquy' is exceedingly vivid; and
'old MATHEWS' American 'trip' is well set forth. We find nothing so good,
however, touching that extraordinary mime, as the following illustration
of his sensitiveness to newspaper criticism, from the pen of the dramatic
veteran, MONCRIEF:

    ''Look here,' he would say, taking up a paper and reading:
    'Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.--We last night visited this elegant
    theatre for the purpose of witnessing the performance of that
    excellent comedian, Mr. BELVI, as _Octavian_, in the
    'Mountaineers,' for his own benefit. We hope it was for his own
    benefit, for it certainly was not for the benefit of any one else;
    for a more execrable performance we never witnessed. This
    gentleman had better stick to his comedy!' Grant me patience;
    Heaven! There's a fellow! What does he know about it? I suppose he
    would abuse my _Iago_--say that is execrable! Isn't this
    sufficient to drive any body mad? Because a man happens to have
    played comedy all his life, '_we_' takes upon himself to think as
    a matter of course he can't play tragedy, though he may possess
    first rate tragic powers, as I do myself! I should have been the
    best _Hamlet_ on the stage if I didn't limp; but let me go on: 'We
    have seen ELLISTON in the character.' A charlatan, a mountebank;
    wouldn't have me at Drury; and yet '_we_' thinks he has a syllable
    the advantage of his competitor in this instance. We! we! as if
    the fellow had a parcel of pigs in his inside; _we! we!_ Who's
    _we_? Why don't he say Tompkins, or whatever his name is, Tompkins
    thinks Elliston better in _Octavian_ than Belvi; Belvi could kick
    Tompkins then; but who can kick _we_?' etc., etc. And yet poor
    Mathews had no warmer admirers, no truer, no more constant friends
    than those whose occasional animadversions would thus excite his
    ire.'

After running a very successful and popular career at the Park-Theatre,
our artist-actor is induced to assume the management of a circus-theatre
just then in high vogue at the TATTERSALL'S building in Broadway. The
subjoined was one of the many incidents which occurred on his assuming the
reins of the establishment:

    'The company was both extensive and excellent; a stud of
    thirty-three horses, four ponies and a jack-ass, all so admirably
    selected and educated, that for beauty and utility they could not
    be equalled any where. The company was popular and our success
    enormous. Of course, like others when first placed in power, I
    made a total change in my cabinet. JOHN BLAKE I appointed
    secretary of the treasury and principal ticket-seller; and to
    prove how excellent a judge I was of integrity and capacity, he
    was engaged at the Park at the end of the season, and has held
    that important situation there ever since. A delicious specimen of
    the Emerald Isle, with the appropriate equestrian appellation of
    Billy Rider, received an office of nearly equal trust, though
    smaller chance of perquisites--stage and stable door-keeper at
    night, and through the day a variety of duties, to designate half
    of which would occupy a chapter. He was strict to a fault in the
    discharge of his duty, as every urchin of that day who attempted
    to sneak into the circus can testify. Conway the tragedian called
    to see me one evening, and in attempting to pass was stopped by
    Billy, armed as usual, with a pitch-fork.

    ''What's this you want? Who are ye? and where are you going?' says
    Billy.

    'I wish to see Mr. Cowell,' says Conway.

    'Oh then, it's till to-morrow at ten o'clock, in his office, that
    you'll have to wait to perform that operation.'

    'But, my dear fellow, my name is Conway, of the theatre; Mr.
    Cowell is my particular friend, and I have his permission to
    enter.'

    'By my word, Sir, I thank ye kindly for the explination; and it's
    a mighty tall, good-looking gentleman you are too,' says Billy,
    presenting his pitch-fork; 'but if ye were the blessed Redeemer,
    with the cross under your arm, you couldn't pass me without an
    orther from Mr. Cowell.'

'JOE COWELL,' in years gone by, has made us laugh many a good hour; and we
hold ourselves bound to reciprocate the pleasure he has afforded us, by
warmly commending his pleasant, gossipping volume to the readers of the
KNICKERBOCKER throughout the United States.


  AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON HUMAN PHYSIOLOGY: on the Basis of the
  'Précis Elémentaire de Physiologie' of MAGENDIE. Translated, enlarged,
  and illustrated with Diagrams and Cuts, by Prof. JOHN REVERE, M. D.,
  of the University of New-York. In one volume. pp. 533. New-York:
  HARPER AND BROTHERS.

The American translator and editor of the volume above cited is of opinion
that since the death of Sir CHARLES BELL, there is no physiologist who
stands so preėminent as an original observer and inquirer, or who has
contributed so much to the present improved state of the science by his
individual efforts, as M. MAGENDIE. In facility in experimenting upon
living animals, and extended opportunities of observation, no one has
surpassed him; while through a long professional career his attention has
been chiefly devoted to physiological inquiries. There is one excellence
which constitutes a predominant feature in his system of Physiology that
cannot be estimated too highly by the student of medicine; and that is,
the severe system of induction that he has pursued, excluding those
imaginative and speculative views which rather belong to metaphysics than
physiology. The work is also remarkable for the conciseness and
perspicuity of its style, the clearness of its descriptions, and the
admirable arrangement of its matter. The present is a translation of the
fifth and last edition of the '_Précis Elémentaire de Physiologie_,' in
which the science is brought down to the present time. It is not, like
many modern systems, merely eclectic, or a compilation of the experiments
and doctrines of others. On the contrary, all the important questions
discussed, if not originally proposed and investigated by the author, have
been thoroughly examined and experimented upon by him. His observations,
therefore, on all these important subjects, carry with them great interest
and weight derived from these investigations. The translator and editor,
while faithfully adhering to the spirit of the author, has endeavored, and
with success, to strip the work of its foreign costume, and _naturalize_
it to our language. He has added a large number of diagrams and pictorial
illustrations of the different organs and structures, taken from the
highest and most recent authorities, in the hope of rendering clearer to
the student of medicine the observations and reasonings on their
functions. He has also made a number of additions on subjects which he
thought had been passed over in too general a manner in the original work
of MAGENDIE. In a word, his aim 'to present a system of human physiology
which shall exhibit in a clear and intelligible manner the actual state of
the science, and adapted to the use of students of medicine in the United
States,' has been thoroughly carried out.


  THE STUDY OF THE LIFE OF WOMAN. By Madame NECKER DE SAUSSURE, of
  Geneva. Translated from the French. In one volume. pp. 288.
  Philadelphia: LEA AND BLANCHARD. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

The distinguished clergyman who introduces this excellent book to American
readers does it no more than justice when he declares it to be the work of
a highly gifted mind, containing many beautiful philosophical views of the
relation which woman sustains in society, abounding in the results of
careful observation, and characterized by a pervading religious spirit. It
is adapted to accomplish great good, and its circulation would do much to
aid those who have the care of youthful females, and who desire that they
should fill the place in society for which they were designed. There is no
work in our language which occupies the place that this is intended to
fill; nor which presents so interesting a view of the organization of
society by its great AUTHOR, and of the situation appropriated to _woman_
in that organization. The book has reference more particularly to the
elevated circles of society; to those who have advantages for education;
who have leisure for the cultivation of the intellect and the heart after
the usual course of education is completed, and who have opportunities of
doing good to others. 'It will supply a place which is not filled now, and
would be eminently useful to that increasing number of individuals in our
country. It is much to be regretted that not a few when they leave school
seem to contemplate little farther advancement in the studies in which
they have been engaged. A just view of the place which woman is designed
to occupy in society, as presented in this volume, would do much to
correct this error. We should regard it as an auspicious omen, if this
work should have an extensive circulation in this country, and believe
that wherever it is perused it will contribute to the elevation of the
sex; to promote large views of the benevolence and wisdom of the Creator
in regard to the human family, and to advance the interests of true
religion.'


  THE AMERICAN REVIEW, AND METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE. Numbers five and six.
  pp. 588. New-York: SAXTON AND MILES, Broadway.

The number of this publication for the December quarter is a very good
one. We were especially interested in the 'Michael Agonistes' of Mr. J. W.
BROWN, which is, in parts, both powerful and harmonious, and in a
dissertation upon 'WEIR'S National Painting.' The writer is of opinion
that our eminent artist has made a sad mistake in the conception of his
striking group, although he awards warm praise to certain portions of the
picture. Still he says: 'It argues slight knowledge of human nature to
suppose that melancholy resignation characterized those who at Delft-Haven
embarked for a land of civil and religious liberty; wild and inhospitable,
to be sure, but still a land of Freedom. There were other thoughts in the
hearts of that noble band than those of sorrow. Even had they been leaving
the country of their birth, they would not have sorrowed; but as it was,
bidding farewell to a land of foreigners, almost as hostile to freedom as
their own, they felt not otherwise than joyful, and their bosoms were full
of thoughtful, reasoning gladness. The parting kiss of that young wife
must have tried, somewhat, the firmness of her husband, yet not enough to
cloud his bright anticipations of the future. A different mood than that
imagined by Mr. WEIR should have pervaded the group, if we are not widely
in error. 'With all its faults,' adds our critic, however, 'The
Embarkation of the Pilgrims,' although not indicative of great genius, yet
regarded as to execution, does honor to Mr. WEIR. We should do injustice
to the central group, did we omit to confess that the devotional grandeur
of the face of the minister, raised to heaven in prayer, struck us with a
feeling of awe, such as we had perhaps never before experienced.' This
especial tribute we have heard paid to this picture by every person whom
we have heard refer to it.




EDITOR'S TABLE.


AMERICAN MANNERS AND AMERICAN LITERATURE.--We ask the attention of every
right-minded American to the following remarks, which we take the liberty
of transcribing from a welcome epistle to the Editor, from one of our most
esteemed and popular contributors. The follies which it exposes and the
evils which it laments have heretofore formed the themes of papers in this
Magazine from the pens of able correspondents, as well as of occasional
comment in our own departments; but we do not remember to have seen the
subject more felicitously handled than by our friend: 'The crying vice of
the nation, and the one which of all others most fastens the charge of
inconsistency on our character and professions, is that apish spirit with
which we admire and copy every thing of European growth. While we exalt
our institutions, character and condition over those of all other nations,
and give ourselves 'a name above every name,' is it not supremely absurd
for city to vie with city and family with family in adopting the latest
fashions in dress and opinions originating in nations which have grown old
in profligacy, and abound in the worthless excrescences of society? We
profess to be perfectly independent of all control in our thoughts and
actions: '_Nullius addicti jurare in verba magistri_.' Yet who more
readily than we shout in chorus to the newest modes of thinking ushered
into ephemeral life by philosophers across the water? Who adopt so early
or carry so far the most outre and preposterous styles of dress invented
in Paris, as our American belles and dandies? The newest cut in garments
which was hatched in Paris beneath the crescent-moon, her waning rays see
carried to its utmost verge in our bustling marts. We follow the
revolutions in the configuration of coats, from square to round, and from
round to angular, with as scrupulous and painful a precision as if our
national honor depended on the issue. Nay, we are usually a little _too_
faithful, and fairly 'out-Herod Herod.' Does the cockney of the 'world's
metropolis' compress his toes in boots tapering at an angle of forty
degrees? The republican fop promenades Broadway with _his_ pedal
extremities squeezed into an angle of thirty; and the corns ensuing he
bears with christian fortitude; for does he not find his 'exceeding great
reward' in being more fashionable than the Londoner himself? Has the fat
of the Siberian bear, or 'thine incomparable oil, Macassar' called forth a
thicket of hair on the cheek of the Frenchman, reaching from the cerebral
pulse to the submaxillary bone? Instantly the pews of our churches, the
boxes of our theatres, and the seats of our legislative halls, are
thronged with whey-faced apes, the moisture of whose brains has exuded in
nourishing a frowning hedge, of which the dark luxuriance encircles the
whole face, resembling the old pictures of the saints wherewith our
childhood was amused, encompassed with a glory! When the whiskered
'petit-māitres' of Hyde-Park shall begin to transport their adorable
persons to this new world on a summer's trip, they will be astonished not
a little to be stared at on landing through opera-glasses by counterparts
of themselves; exact to the last hair of the moustache. 'Werily,' will be
their ejaculation, 'hit his wery great presumption in these wulgar
democrats to himitate us Henglish in this way-ah!' Every easterly wind
blows in a fleet laden with cargoes of folly, and every outward-bound
vessel bears an order for fresh importations of absurdity, of which
milliners and tailors are the shippers, and flirts and fops the
consignees. So far has this mimicking spirit proceeded, that we regard
neither climate nor season. Were some accident to delay for a few months
our advices from Europe, I question not but our fashionable ladies would
adopt in mid-winter the same form and materials for their dresses which
the Parisian damsels sported on the Boulevards beneath the scorching
dog-star. The changeful and chilly atmosphere of our sea-board differs
widely from the genial airs of 'La belle France,' and to adopt their
fashions in detail is about as wise and tasteful in us as it would be for
the negro panting beneath the line to wrap himself in the furs of Siberia,
and substitute for his refreshing palm-juice the usquebaugh of the
Highlands. Who would not laugh himself into a pleurisy to see the dandies
of Timbuctoo stalking along in solemn gravity beneath their torrid sun,
encumbered with a Russian fur-cloak, or a Lapland 'whip' on a snow-sledge,
driving his canine four-in-hand, with a Turkish turban and Grecian robe
folded carelessly around him? Yet wherein do we greatly differ in _our_
absurdities! Again: we profess to have lopped from our democratic tree the
old-world customs of hereditary title and patrimonial honor. _We_ are no
respecters of persons. _We_ have no reverence for ancestral virtues, and
the lustre that shines only by reflection has no charms for _us_. _We_
respect no grandees but 'nature's noblemen.' _We_ look through the
glittering atmosphere of place, and title, and factitious distinction, at
the man himself. The artificer of his own fortunes we hail as a brother.
He who possesses superior abilities or unblemished integrity, _we_ honor,
though his hands be on the plough; and he who is imbecile or dishonest,
_we_ despise, though his brow be encircled by a coronet. All noble,
consistent, rational, and right. But how is this? 'Lo! a foreigner has
landed on our shores.' Well; what then? We also should be foreigners in
Europe. 'Yes; but he bears the honorable appendage of Lord, or Sir, or De,
or Di, or Von, or Don.' Happy, meanwhile, thrice happy the youth whom his
titleship will allow to treat him; blessed, triumphantly blessed, the Miss
whose charms have warmed into life the cold gaze of my Lord Highbred, or
Monsieur De Nonchalance. And oh! beatified beyond all rapture the doting
mother, who in her ripened and expanded miniature begins to realize her
dreams of 'young romance,' and to hope by connection with a family more
lineally descended from Adam than her own, to obtain a rank

  'Whose glory with a lingering trace,
  Shines through and deifies her race!'

Truth, every word truth--satire most justly bestowed; and before
relinquishing this general theme, let us ask the reader to admire with us
the cognate remarks of a writer in the last number of the 'North-American
Review' upon the importance of a _Literature_ which shall be distinctive
and national in its character, and not a _rifacamento_ of the varying
literatures of various nations: 'The man whose heart is capable of any
patriotic emotion, who feels his pulse quicken when the idea of his
country is brought home to him, must desire that country to possess a
voice more majestic than the roar of party, and more potent than the whine
of sects; a voice which should breathe energy and awaken hope where-ever
its kindling tones are heard. The life of our native land; the inner
spirit which animates its institutions; the new ideas and principles, of
which it is the representative; these every patriot must wish to behold
reflected from the broad mirror of a comprehensive and soul-animating
literature. The true vitality of a nation is not seen in the triumphs of
its industry, the extent of its conquests, or the reach of its empire; but
in its intellectual dominion. Posterity passes over statistical tables of
trade and population, to search for the records of the mind and heart. It
is of little moment how many millions of men were included at any time
under the name of one people, if they have left no intellectual
testimonials of their mode and manner of existence, no 'foot-prints on the
sands of time.' The heart refuses to glow at the most astounding array of
figures. A nation lives only through its literature, and its mental life
is immortal. And if we have a literature, it should be a _national_
literature; no feeble or sonorous echo of Germany or England, but
essentially American in its tone and object. No matter how meritorious a
composition may be, as long as any foreign nation can say that it has done
the same thing better, so long shall we be spoken of with contempt, or in
a spirit of benevolent patronage. We begin to sicken of the custom, now so
common, of presenting even our best poems to the attention of foreigners,
with a deprecating, apologetic air; as if their acceptance of the
offering, with a few soft and silky compliments, would be an act of
kindness demanding our warmest acknowledgments. If the Quarterly Review or
Blackwood's Magazine speaks well of an American production, we think that
we can praise it ourselves, without incurring the reproach of bad taste.
The folly we yearly practise, of flying into passion with some inferior
English writer, who caricatures our faults, and tells dull jokes about his
tour through the land, has only the effect to exalt an insignificant
scribbler into notoriety, and give a nominal value to his recorded
impertinence. If the mind and heart of the country had its due expression,
if its life had taken form in a literature worthy of itself, we should pay
little regard to the childish tattling of a pert coxcomb who was
discontented with our taverns, or the execrations of some bluff
sea-captain who was shocked with our manners. The uneasy sense we have of
something in our national existence which has not yet been fitly
expressed, gives poignancy to the least ridicule launched at faults and
follies which lie on the superficies of our life. Every person feels, that
a book which condemns the country for its peculiarities of manners and
customs, does not pierce into the heart of the matter, and is essentially
worthless. If Bishop BERKELEY, when he visited MALEBRANCHE, had paid
exclusive attention to the habitation, raiment, and manners of the man,
and neglected the conversation of the metaphysician, and, when he returned
to England, had entertained POPE, SWIFT, GAY, and ARBUTHNOT with satirical
descriptions of the 'compliment extern' of his eccentric host, he would
have acted just as wisely as many an English tourist, with whose malicious
pleasantry on our habits of chewing, spitting, and eating, we are silly
enough to quarrel. To the United States in reference to the pop-gun shots
of foreign tourists, might be addressed the warning which Peter Plymley
thundered against BONAPARTE, in reference to the Anti-Jacobin jests of
CANNING: Tremble, oh! thou land of many spitters and voters, 'for a
_pleasant_ man has come out against thee, and thou shalt be laid low by a
joker of jokes, and he shall talk his pleasant talk to thee, and thou
shalt be no more!' In order that America may take its due rank in the
commonwealth of nations, a literature is needed which shall be the
exponent of its higher life. We live in times of turbulence and change.
There is a general dissatisfaction, manifesting itself often in rude
contests and ruder speech, with the gulf which separates principles from
actions. Men are struggling to realize dim ideals of right and truth, and
each failure adds to the desperate earnestness of their efforts. Beneath
all the shrewdness and selfishness of the American character, there is a
smouldering enthusiasm which flames out at the first touch of fire;
sometimes at the hot and hasty words of party, and sometimes at the
bidding of great thoughts and unselfish principles. The heart of the
nation is easily stirred to its depths; but those who rouse its fiery
impulses into action are often men compounded of ignorance and wickedness,
and wholly unfitted to guide the passions which they are able to excite.
We want a poetry which shall speak in clear, loud tones to the people; a
poetry which shall make us more in love with our native land, by
converting its ennobling scenery into the images of lofty thoughts; which
shall give visible form and life to the abstract ideas of our written
constitutions; which shall confer upon virtue all the strength of
principle and all the energy of passion; which shall disentangle freedom
from cant and senseless hyperbole, and render it a thing of such
loveliness and grandeur as to justify all self-sacrifice; which shall make
us love man by the new consecrations it sheds on his life and destiny;
which shall force through the thin partitions of conventialism and
expediency; vindicate the majesty of reason; give new power to the voice
of conscience, and new vitality to human affection; soften and elevate
passion; guide enthusiasm in a right direction; and speak out in the high
language of men to a nation of men.'

THE NORTH-AMERICAN REVIEW for the January quarter is one of the best
issues of that 'ancient and honorable' Quarterly which we have encountered
for many months. It contains eight extended reviews, five brief 'Critical
Notices,' and the usual quarterly list of new publications. The first
article is upon the '_Poets and Poetry of America_,' a work 'which has
travelled through many States and four editions,' and for the production
of which Mr. GRISWOLD is justly commended. In the progress of this paper,
the writer indulges in a sort of running commentary upon the more
conspicuous poets included in the compiler's collection, as BRYANT,
HALLECK, SPRAGUE, DANA, PERCIVAL, LONGFELLOW, WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK,
HOLMES, WHITTIER, etc., etc.  Of BRYANT the reviewer among other things
remarks:

    'MR. GRISWOLD says finely of BRYANT, that 'he is the translator of
    the silent language of nature to the world.' The serene beauty and
    thoughtful tenderness, which characterize his descriptions, or
    rather interpretations of outward objects, are paralleled only in
    WORDSWORTH. His poems are almost perfect of their kind. The fruits
    of meditation, rather than of passion or imagination, and rarely
    startling with an unexpected image or sudden outbreak of feeling,
    they are admirable specimens of what may be called the philosophy
    of the soul. They address the finer instincts of our nature with a
    voice so winning and gentle; they search out with such subtle
    power all in the heart which is true and good; that their
    influence, though quiet, is resistless. They have consecrated to
    many minds things which before it was painful to contemplate. Who
    can say that his feelings and fears respecting death have not
    received an insensible change, since reading the 'Thanatopsis?'
    Indeed, we think that BRYANT'S poems are valuable, not only for
    their intrinsic excellence, but for the vast influence their wide
    circulation is calculated to exercise on national feelings and
    manners. It is impossible to read them without being morally
    benefitted. They purify as well as please. They develope or
    encourage all the elevated and thoughtful tendencies of the mind.'

We are glad to see the reproof which the reviewer bestows upon those
critics of LONGFELLOW'S poetry, who to escape the trouble of analysis,
offer some smooth eulogium upon his 'taste,' or some lip-homage to his
'artistical ability,' instead of noting the tendency of his writings to
touch the heroic strings in our nature, to breathe energy into the heart,
to sustain our lagging purposes, and fix our thoughts on what is stable
and eternal. The following is eminently just:

    'The great characteristic of LONGFELLOW, that of addressing the
    moral nature through the imagination, of linking moral truth to
    intellectual beauty, is a far greater excellence. His artistical
    ability is admirable, because it is not seen. It is rather mental
    than mechanical. The best artist is he who accommodates his
    diction to his subject. In this sense, LONGFELLOW is an artist. By
    learning 'to labor and to wait,' by steadily brooding over the
    chaos in which thought and emotion first appear to the mind, and
    giving shape and life to both, before uttering them in words, he
    has obtained a singular mastery over expression. By this we do not
    mean that he has a large command of language. No fallacy is
    greater than that which confounds fluency with expression.
    Washerwomen, and boys at debating clubs, often display more
    fluency than WEBSTER; but his words are to theirs, as the roll of
    thunder to the patter of rain. Language often receives its
    significance and power from the person who uses it. Unless
    permeated by the higher faculties of the mind, unless it be not
    the clothing, but the 'incarnation of thought,' it is quite an
    humble power. There are some writers who repose undoubting
    confidence in words. If their minds be filled with the epithets of
    poetry, they fondly deem that they have clutched its essence. In a
    piece of inferior verse, we often observe a great array of
    expressions which have been employed with great effect by genius,
    but which seem to burn the fingers and disconcert the equanimity
    of the aspiring word-catcher who presses them into his service.
    Felicity, not fluency, of language is a merit.'

Exactly; yet these same 'fluent' versifiers are the persons who talk with
elaborate flippancy of the 'simple common-places' of this noble poet! The
reviewer adds: 'LONGFELLOW has a perfect command of that expression which
results from restraining rather than cultivating fluency; and his manner
is adapted to his theme. He rarely, if ever, mistakes 'emotions for
conceptions.' His words are often pictures of his thought. He selects with
great delicacy and precision the exact phrase which best expresses or
suggests his idea. He colors his style with the skill of a painter. The
warm flush and bright tints, as well as the most evanescent hues of
language, he uses with admirable discretion. In that higher department of
his art, that of so combining his words and images that they make music to
the soul as well as to the ear, and convey not only his feelings and
thoughts, but also the very tone and condition of the soul in which they
have being, he likewise excels.' The reviewer illustrates these remarks,
by citing the 'Psalms of Life,' the 'Saga of the Skeleton in Armor,' 'The
Village Blacksmith,' etc., which were written by Mr. LONGFELLOW for the
pages of this Magazine, and adds, that our poet indulges in no 'wild
struggles after an ineffable Something, for which earth can afford but
imperfect symbols. He appears perfectly satisfied with his work. Like his
own 'Village Blacksmith,' he retires every night with the feeling that
something has been attempted, and something _done_.' There is a subtle
analysis of the style of that first of comic poets, HOLMES, for which we
shall endeavor to find space hereafter. Of the writings of the late
lamented WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, the reviewer remarks, that they 'are all
distinguished for a graceful and elegant diction, thoughts morally and
poetically beautiful, and chaste and appropriate imagery. They exhibit
much purity and strength of feeling, are replete with fancy and sentiment,
and have often a searching pathos and a mournful beauty, which find their
way quietly to the heart.' The poetry of our friend and correspondent
WHITTIER is warmly commended: 'A common thought comes from his pen 'rammed
with life.' He seems in some of his lyrics to pour out his blood with his
lines. There is a rush of passion in his verse, which sweeps every thing
along with it.' The remaining references are to the lady-poets, Mesdames
BROOKS, CHILD, SIGOURNEY, SMITH, WELBY, HALL, ELLET, DINNIE, EMBURY,
HOOPER, the DAVIDSONS, etc. The whole article is well considered; and we
cordially commend it to the attention of our readers. The remaining papers
are upon PALFREY'S admirable 'Lectures on the Evidences of Christianity,'
'Trade with the Hanse-Towns, the German Tariff-League;' 'GERVINUS'S
History of German Poetry;' 'Debts of the States,' an excellent and most
timely article;' 'PRESCOTT'S History of Mexico;' 'SAM SLICK in England;'
and a valuable dissertation on Libraries, based upon the catalogue of the
library of Brown University.


JOSEPH C. NEAL'S 'CHARCOAL SKETCHES.'--Right glad are we to welcome from
the teeming press of Messrs. BURGESS AND STRINGER a new edition of these
most humorous and witty sketches, illustrated with engravings by D. C.
JOHNSTON, of Boston. We have re-perused them with renewed delight, and
awakened again the echoes of our silent sanctum, in the excess of our
cachinnatory enjoyment. Our friend MORTON M'MICHAEL, in the 'advance
GRAHAM' for February, (which by the way contains a breathing likeness of
the sketcher,) has the following remarks upon the papers composing the
volume before us, which we most cordially endorse: 'No one, who has his
faculties in a healthy condition, can read them and not feel convinced
that they are the productions of a superior and highly gifted mind. They
not only smack strongly of what all true men love, genuine humor; rich,
racy, glorious humor; at which you may indulge in an honest outbreak of
laughter, and not feel ashamed afterward because you have thrown away good
mirth on a pitiful jest; but when you have laughed your fill, if you
choose to look beneath the surface, which sparkles and bubbles with
brilliant fancies, you will find an under current of truthful observation,
abundant in matter for sober thought in your graver moments. In all of
them, light and trifling as they seem, and pleasant as they unquestionably
are, there is a deep and solemn moral. The follies and vices which, in
weak natures, soon grow into crimes, are here presented in such a way as
to forewarn those who are about to yield to temptation, not by dull
monitions and unregarded homilies, but by making the actors themselves
unconscious protestants against their own misdoings. And to do this well
requires a combination of abilities such as few possess. There must be the
quick eye to perceive, the nice judgment to discriminate, the active
memory to retain, the vigorous pen to depict, and above all, the soul, the
mind, the genius, call it what you will, to infuse into the whole life and
spirit and power. Now, all these qualities Neal has in an eminent degree,
and he applies them with the skill of an accomplished artist. What he does
he does thoroughly, perfectly. His portraits, which he modestly calls
sketches, are unmistakeable. The very men he wishes to portray are before
you, and they are not only limned to the outward eye, but they speak also
to the outward ear, and in sentences thickly clustered with the drollest
conceits, they convey lessons of practical philosophy, and make
revelations of the strange perversities of our inward nature, from which
even the wise may gather profitable conclusions.' Our friend speaks of Mr.
NEAL'S being 'comparatively little known.' We have good reason to believe
that one great cause of this is, that his name has often been confounded
with that of another and altogether different species of NEAL, whose
infinite twattle--infinite alike in degree and quantity--has prejudiced
the public mind against any thing that may seem to come in 'questionable
shape' from a questionable source. This error has had its advantages to
_one_ party, no doubt, since there was 'every thing to gain and nothing to
lose;' an advantage however which the prefix of the first two initials of
our friend and correspondent to passages from his work which may hereafter
find their way into the newspapers, will transfer to the rightful
recipient. But to the volume in question, from which we are about to make
a few random selections, illustrating the characters of sundry 'city
worthies,' who are 'comprehended as vagrom men' by the 'charleys' or
watchmen of the good City of Brotherly Love. Let us begin with the
soliloquy of the poetical OLYMPUS PUMP:

    ''GENIUS never feels its oats until after sunset; twilight applies
    the spanner to the fire-plug of fancy to give its bubbling
    fountains way; and midnight lifts the sluices for the cataracts of
    the heart, and cries, 'Pass on the water!' Yes, and economically
    considered, night is this world's Spanish cloak; for no matter how
    dilapidated or festooned one's apparel may be, the loops and
    windows cannot be discovered, and we look as elegant and as
    beautiful as get out. Ah!' continued Pump, as he gracefully
    reclined upon the stall, 'it's really astonishing how rich I am in
    the idea line to-night. But it's no use. I've got no pencil--not
    even a piece of chalk to write 'em on my hat for my next poem.
    It's a great pity ideas are so much of the soap-bubble order, that
    you can't tie 'em up in a pocket handkerchief, like a half peck of
    potatoes, or string 'em on a stick like catfish. I often have the
    most beautiful notions scampering through my head with the grace,
    but alas! the swiftness too, of kittens, especially just before I
    get asleep; but they're all lost for the want of a trap; an
    intellectual figgery four. I wish we could find out the way of
    sprinkling salt on their tails, and make 'em wait till we want to
    use 'em. Why can't some of the meaner souls invent an idea-catcher
    for the use of genius? I'm sure they'd find it profitable, for I
    wouldn't mind owing a man twenty dollars for one myself.'

Mr. FYDGET FYXINGTON is another worthy, who reverts continually to 'first
principles,' and is full of schemes and projects, especially when he
chances to have 'a stone in his hat.' Hear him:

    ''NOTHIN'S fixed no how; our grand-dads must a been lazy rascals.
    Why didn't they roof over the side-walks, and not leave every
    thing for us to do? I ain't got no numbrell, and besides that,
    when it comes down as if raining was no name for it, as it always
    does when I'm cotch'd out, numbrells is no great shakes if you've
    got one with you, and no shakes at all if it's at home. It's a
    pity we ain't got feathers, so's to grow our own jacket and
    trowsers, and do up the tailorin' business, and make our own
    feather beds. It would be a great savin'; every man his own
    clothes, and every man his own feather bed. Now I've got a
    suggestion about that; first principles bring us to the skin;
    fortify that, and the matter's done. How would it do to bile a big
    kittle full of tar, tallow, beeswax and injen rubber, with
    considerable wool, and dab the whole family once a week? The
    young'uns might be soused in it every Saturday night, and the
    nigger might fix the elderly folks with a whitewash brush. Then
    there wouldn't be no bother a washing your clothes or yourself,
    which last is an invention of the doctor to make people sick,
    because it lets in the cold in winter and the heat in summer, when
    natur' says shut up the porouses and keep 'em out. Besides, when
    the new invention was tore at the knees or wore at the elbows,
    just tell the nigger to put on the kittle and give you a dab, and
    you're patched slick; and so that whole mobs of people mightn't
    stick together like figs, a little sperrits of turpentine or
    litharage might be added to make 'em dry like a house-a-fire. 'T
    would be nice for sojers. Stand 'em all of a row, and whitewash
    'em blue or red, according to pattern, as if they were a fence.
    The gin'rals might look on to see if it was done according to
    Gunter; the cap'ins might flourish the brush, and the corpulars
    carry the bucket. Dandies could fix themselves all sorts of
    streaked and all sorts of colors. When the parterials is cheap and
    the making don't cost nothing, that's what I call economy, and
    coming as near as possible to first principles. It's a better way,
    too, of keeping out the rain, than my t'other plan of flogging
    people when they're young, to make their hides hard and
    water-proof. A good licking is a sound first principle for
    juveniles, but they've got a prejudice agin it.'

'A pair of Slippers' brings us acquainted with another original personage,
who one dark night soliloquizes on this wise:

    ''I'VE not the slightest doubt that this is as beautiful a night
    as ever was; only it's so dark you can't see the pattern of it.
    One night is pretty much like another night in the dark; but it's
    a great advantage to a good-looking evening, if the lamps are lit,
    so you can twig the stars and the moonshine. The fact is, that in
    this 'ere city, we do grow the blackest moons, and the hardest
    moons to find, I ever did see. Lamps is lamps, and moons is moons,
    in a business pint of view, but practically they ain't much if the
    wicks ain't afire. When the luminaries are, as I may say, in the
    raw, it's bad for me. I can't see the ground as perforately as
    little fellers, and every dark night I'm sure to get a hyst;
    either a forrerd hyst, or a backerd hyst, or some sort of a hyst;
    but more backerds than forrerds, 'specially in winter. One of the
    most unfeeling tricks I know of, is the way some folks have got of
    laughing out, yaw-haw! when they see a gentleman ketching a
    reg'lar hyst; a long gentleman, for instance, with his legs in the
    air, and his noddle splat down upon the cold bricks. A hyst of
    itself is bad enough, without being sniggered at: first, your
    sconce gets a crack; then, you see all sorts of stars, and have
    free admission to the fire-works; then, you scramble up, feeling
    as if you had no head on your shoulders, and as if it wasn't you,
    but some confounded disagreeable feller in your clothes; yet the
    jacksnipes all grin, as if the misfortunes of human nature was
    only a poppet show. I wouldn't mind it, if you could get up and
    look as if you didn't care. But a man can't rise, after a royal
    hyst, without letting on he feels flat. In such cases, however,
    sympathy is all gammon; and as for sensibility of a winter's day,
    people keep it all for their own noses, and can't be coaxed to
    retail it by the small.'

'DILLY JONES' is one of those unfortunate wights 'just whose luck' it is
never to succeed in any thing they undertake. In a state of 'mellow'
mental abstraction, while lamenting that the trade of one's early days
might not likewise be the trade of one's latter years, he unconsciously
utters his thoughts aloud:

    ''SAWING wood's going all to smash,' said he, 'and that's where
    every thing goes what I speculates in. This here coal is doing us
    up. Ever since these black stones was brought to town, the
    wood-sawyers and pilers, and them soap-fat and hickory-ashes men,
    has been going down; and, for my part, I can't say as I see what's
    to be the end of all their new-fangled contraptions. But it's
    always so; I'm always crawling out of the little end of the horn.
    I began life in a comfortable sort of a way; selling oysters out
    of a wheel-barrow, all clear grit, and didn't owe nobody nothing.
    Oysters went down slick enough for a while, but at last cellars
    was invented, and darn the oyster, no matter how nice it was
    pickled, could poor Dill sell; so I had to eat up capital and
    profits myself. Then the 'pepree-pot smoking' was sot up, and went
    ahead pretty considerable for a time; but a parcel of fellers come
    into it, said my cats wasn't as good as their'n, when I know'd
    they was as fresh as any cats in the market; and pepree-pot was no
    go. Bean-soup was just as bad; people said kittens wasn't good
    done that way, and the more I hollered, the more the customers
    wouldn't come, and them what did, wanted tick. Along with the boys
    and their pewter fips, them what got trust and didn't pay, and the
    abusing of my goods, I was soon fotch'd up in the victualling
    line--and I busted for the benefit of my creditors. But genius
    riz. I made a raise of a horse and saw, after being a wood-piler's
    prentice for a while, and working till I was free, and now here
    comes the coal to knock this business in the head.' · · · 'I
    WONDER if they wouldn't list me for a Charley? Hollering oysters
    and bean-soup has guv' me a splendid woice; and instead of
    skeering 'em away, if the thieves were to hear me singing out, my
    style of doing it would almost coax 'em to come and be took up.
    They'd feel like a bird when a snake is after it, and would walk
    up, and poke their coat collars right into my fist. Then, after a
    while, I'd perhaps be promoted to the fancy business of pig
    ketching, which, though it is werry light and werry elegant,
    requires genus. 'Tisn't every man that can come the scientifics in
    that line, and has studied the nature of a pig, so as to beat him
    at canoeuvering, and make him surrender 'cause he sees it ain't no
    use of doing nothing. It wants larning to conwince them critters,
    and it's only to be done by heading 'em up handsome, hopping which
    ever way they hop, and tripping 'em up genteel by shaking hands
    with their off hind leg. I'd scorn to pull their tails out by the
    roots, or to hurt their feelin's by dragging 'em about by the
    ears. But what's the use? If I was listed, they'd soon find out to
    holler the hour and to ketch the thieves by steam; yes, and they'd
    take 'em to court on a railroad, and try 'em with biling water.
    They'll soon have black locomotives for watchmen and constables,
    and big bilers for judges and mayors. Pigs will be ketched by
    steam, and will be biled fit to eat before they are done
    squealing. By and by, folks won't be of no use at all. There won't
    be no people in the world but tea-kittles; no mouths, but
    safety-valves; and no talking, but blowing off steam. If I had a
    little biler inside of me, I'd turn omnibus, and week-days I'd run
    from Kensington to the Navy Yard, and Sundays I'd run to
    Fairmount.''

There is a world of wisdom in the syllabus, or 'argument,' prefixed to
each sketch; but for these we must refer the reader to the volume itself.
The DOGBERRYS too are as wise as their 'illustrious predecessor,' and are
quite as profuse of advice to 'the plaintiffs' who fall into their hands.
Take a single specimen: 'Take keer--don't persume; I'm a 'fishal
functionary out a-ketching of dogs. You mustn't cut up because it's night.
The mayor and the 'squires has gone to bed; but the law is a thing that
never gets asleep. After ten o'clock the law is a watchman and a
dog-ketcher; we're the whole law till breakfast's a'most ready.' 'You're a
clever enough kind of little feller, sonny; but you ain't been eddicated
to the law as I have; so I'll give you a lecture. Justice vinks at vot it
can't see, and lets them off vot it can't ketch. When you want to break
it, you must dodge. You may do what you like in your own house, and the
law don't know nothing about the matter. But never go thumping and bumping
about the streets, when you are primed and snapped. That's intemperance,
and the other is temperance. But now you come under the muzzle of the
ordinance; you're a loafer.' One of these ''fishal functionaries'
justifies extreme physical means in 'captivating obstropolous vagroms'
both by reason and distinguished precedent: 'Wolloping is the only way;
it's a panacea for differences of opinion. You'll find it in history
books, that one nation teaches another what it didn't know before by
wolloping it; that's the method of civilizing savages; the Romans put the
whole world to rights that way; and what's right on the big figger must be
right on the small scale. In short, there's nothing like wolloping for
taking the conceit out of fellows who think they know more than their
betters.' 'And so forth, et cetera,' as may be ascertained on a perusal of
the volume.


LIFE AND TIMES OF THE LATE WILLIAM ABBOTT: THIRD NOTICE.--This most
entertaining manuscript-volume, from which we have already drawn so
largely for the entertainment of our readers, has not been published in
America, as it was designed to have been, owing partly as we learn to the
fact that, through 'something like unfair dealing' toward the widow of the
writer, a copy of half the volume had been transmitted to England, parts
of which have already reached this country in the pages of a London
magazine. We had the pleasure to anticipate by a month or two the best
portions even of these printed chapters; and we proceed to select passages
from other divisions of this interesting auto-biography, which were
written out after a duplicate copy of the earlier chapters had been
transmitted to the London publisher. Mr. ABBOTT (aside from the society to
which he had the entrée on account of his professional merits,) was a
personal favorite with many of the most eminent personages among the
English nobility, with whom he was on terms of close intimacy; but we
never find him illustrating his own importance by the narration of the
social anecdotes or careless table-talk of his distinguished friends, as
too many of his contemporaries have done. He was honored with the cordial
friendship of the EARLS GLENGALL and FITZHARDING; and 'at their tables,'
he writes, 'I was a frequent guest, where I constantly met with society
embracing the highest rank and most distinguished talent in England. I
refrain, from obvious reasons, from mentioning names; but I may say that
if there was ever a class of persons who confer honor upon the society in
which they mingle, it is _the Aristocracy of Great-Britain_. There is a
delicacy and forbearance in their manner, and that air of perfect equality
which is so indicative of the accomplished gentleman and scholar. COLMAN
was a very frequent guest at these dinners, and was, with the exception
perhaps of LORD ALVANLEY, one of the most brilliant diners-out in London.'
This testimony, let us remark in passing, in favor of the ease and
simplicity of the really high-born gentlemen of England, is confirmed by
all Americans who have been well received in English society. The reader
will especially remember the tribute paid on this point by Mr.  SANDERSON,
the accomplished 'American in Paris,' in his 'Familiar Letters from
London,' in these pages. But we are standing before Mr. ABBOTT. In
Edinburgh 'there lies the scene:'

    'I AGAIN visited Edinburgh at the close of the Covent-Garden
    season, and received the same undiminished hospitality as on a
    former occasion. I established an intimacy with the BALLANTINES of
    celebrated SCOTT memory. MATTHEWS was indebted to JOHN BALLANTINE
    for his famous old Scotch woman, and he certainly rivalled his
    preceptor in the quaint and dry humor with which he narrated that
    most amusing story. The management of the Edinburgh Theatre rested
    in the hands of Mr. MURRAY. He was the only son of the MURRAY
    formerly of Covent-Garden Theatre, who was one of the most chaste
    and impressive actors I ever saw. His Adam, in 'As you Like it,'
    was really the perfection of the art. Mrs. HENRY SIDDONS, in whom
    the property was vested at the death of her husband, was,
    fortunately for me, residing with her charming family in
    Edinburgh, and I was a constant guest at her table. Her manners
    were fascinating in the extreme, and a greater compliment could
    not well be paid than in having the entrée to a family so
    intellectual in their resources, and so perfectly amiable in
    disposition. A very amusing and agreeable club was got up by a
    party of young advocates. Delightful it was, from its very
    absurdity; in fact the nonsense of men of sense is an admirable
    couch to repose upon. Our numbers were limited, and embraced some
    of that powerful intellect which the modern Athens possesses in so
    eminent degree. Mr. MILES ANGUS FLETCHER, Mr. ANDERSON, Sir
    WILLIAM HAMILTON, and a son of the late and brother of the present
    Lord MEADOWBANK, were among those I knew intimately, and whose
    varied talents gave life and soul to the society. We scorned the
    artificial light that illumined our midnight orgies, and seldom
    separated before the beams of the sun were dancing in our festive
    cups.'

The following account of the first _Theatrical Fund Dinner_, an
entertainment of which we hear so much latterly in England, with the
defence of actors against the charges of extravagance and improvidence so
often brought against them, will possess interest for American readers:

    'THE Covent-Garden Theatrical Fund about this period was
    languishing for want of support; and the great importance to be
    derived from an increase of its means seriously occupied the
    attention of the committee. We naturally looked upon it as
    affording an opportunity of increasing the respectability of the
    profession, and the means of preventing those individual appeals
    to the public from our impoverished brethren. There is a popular
    delusion that actors form a class in which the most reckless
    profusion is displayed; that the habits of their lives are
    necessarily dissipated, and that in the enjoyments of the luxuries
    of to-day, the wants and cares of to-morrow are entirely lost
    sight of. I do not believe in these sweeping assertions. I will
    not pretend to say that actors are exempt from the frailties of
    humanity; nay, I will admit that their course of life perhaps
    exposes them to greater temptations; but this fact ought rather to
    operate in their favor, than to tell so powerfully against them. I
    would ask those persons who are so inimical to the profession of
    an actor, whether longevity is the result of dissipation; and if
    they will take the trouble of examining, they will find that
    actors in general are extremely long-lived. There is a want of
    thriftiness in their composition, I grant; and fortunately for
    them the same charge is brought against the poet; the man whose
    high intellectual powers prevent his descending to the level of
    this work-day world. But will any one take the trouble of
    explaining from whence the actor is to derive his wealth? We will
    imagine that his salary is respectable, that it is regularly paid,
    and that there is no excuse for his being in debt. And now take
    into consideration that he has an appearance to maintain; that he
    has a family to support; and then what becomes of the opportunity
    of laying by a modicum even, to guard against the decline of life
    when the 'winter daisies' shall crown his head, and a new race of
    performers have started up and driven the others from their posts?
    We have some rare instances of very large fortunes being made and
    retained by members of the profession it is true, but they were
    instances of dazzling genius, or had the world's belief that they
    possessed it. I will take names within the memory of us all: Mrs.
    SIDDONS, Mr. KEMBLE, Miss O'NEIL, the 'Young Roscius,' and the
    late Mr. LEWIS; and I will add to that list men of accomplished
    talents and great honor to the profession; YOUNG, BANNISTER,
    MUNDEN, BRAHAM, WROUGHTON, LISTON, HARLEY, JOHNSTONE, POWER,
    JONES; and I am sure the reader will believe me when I state, that
    I heartily wish I could place my own name in the list. Take the
    members of any other profession, however honorable, limit their
    numbers and means to the same proportion, and I ask if you would
    be enabled to produce a greater list of independent persons. The
    great advantages to be derived from a Theatrical Fund are here I
    trust made apparent; and after many suggestions, I believe it fell
    to the lot of CHARLES TAYLOR to propose an annual public dinner;
    and it proved a most fortunate idea. The first great point to be
    obtained was a patron, and then a president for the dinner. Our
    application met with immediate success, and His Royal Highness the
    PRINCE REGENT condescendingly gave his name at the head of our
    undertaking, accompanied by a solid mark of his favor in the
    donation of one hundred pounds. We then had the gracious consent
    of the DUKE OF YORK to be our President, aided by his Royal
    brothers KENT and SUSSEX. The list of vice-presidents embraced
    many of the most distinguished noblemen and gentlemen in the
    country. In what an amiable point of view do the Royal Princes
    place themselves before the public in so thoroughly identifying
    themselves with the many interesting charities to which London
    gives birth! The grateful spirit of joyousness which they
    invariably displayed on these occasions, gave an interest to the
    festive scenes, and confirmed many a heart in its loyalty to their
    illustrious house. The late DUKE OF GORDON sat on the right hand
    of the Royal President, and favored the company with a song, which
    greatly surprised them, and elicited a general encore, and with
    which, with great good humor, he immediately complied. MATTHEWS
    always held a conspicuous position at these dinners, and made a
    point of giving an original song, selected from his forth-coming
    entertainment. The amount collected at our first dinner was
    extraordinary; no less a sum than one thousand eight hundred and
    seventy pounds. The Drury-Lane Fund in the following year adapted
    our plan of the dinner, and both these institutions now annually
    derive a very large sum from the volunteer subscriptions of the
    Friends of the Drama. The same Royal patronage is most graciously
    continued by her present Majesty, and Royalty continues to preside
    at the festival. With this accumulation of patronage the actor may
    fearlessly look forward to the close of his mortal career without
    the dread of eleemosynary contributions, and also feel the proud
    gratification that he has personally contributed to support so
    interesting a Fund.'

As a specimen of Mr. ABBOTT'S stock-breaking and gambling experiences, we
quote the subjoined passages:

    'A friend of mine connected with the Stock Exchange on one
    occasion pointed out to me the great advantage of occasionally
    purchasing five thousand consuls on time, knowing that I had
    capital unemployed; the certain profits were placed before me in
    such an agreeable point of view, that I could not resist the bait.
    In the course of two days I received a check for fifty pounds, a
    sum by no means unpleasant, considering that I had not advanced
    one farthing. The natural consequence was that I repeated the dose
    with various success until I was ultimately well plucked. I
    sustained a loss of one thousand pounds. I then began to be very
    uneasy, until I fortunately discovered that by one _coup_ I had
    made two hundred pounds. My broker had waddled of course, without
    being able to make up his differences. The parties of whom I had
    purchased, through my agent, refused to pay me, as they had no
    knowledge of a third person, and were themselves considerable
    sufferers by the aforesaid broker. I could not understand the
    justice of this measure, for I had always paid my losses to the
    moment; so I walked to Temple-Bar, pulled off my hat most
    gracefully to that venerable arch, and vowed never again to pass
    it in the pursuit of ill-gotten wealth. I had always a perfect
    horror of _gambling_, and little imagined I was pursuing it in a
    wholesale manner. To satisfy my inordinate curiosity, for
    sight-seeing, I have twice or thrice in my life passed the
    threshhold of a gambling-house in London, but never felt the least
    personal desire to embark the smallest sum, although keenly alive
    to the dangerous excitement in others. On one of these occasions
    it fell to my lot to witness a most affecting and trying scene.
    The names of the parties came to my knowledge afterward, which
    from delicacy I of course suppress. A gentleman had for some years
    been separated from his wife, in consequence of infidelity on her
    part with a man of high fashion, an officer of the Guards. An
    action and divorce ensued; but two children whom he had previous
    to this unfortunate event, he refused to acknowledge, thus
    endeavoring to put the stain of illegitimacy upon them. Years
    rolled on, and the father and son never met. Rouge-et-Noir was the
    fashionable game of the day, and Pall-Mall and St. James-street
    swarmed with gambling-houses. Two gentlemen were quarrelling upon
    a point, each accusing the other of taking the stake. The younger
    man was the officer on guard that day, and consequently in
    uniform. High words ensued; cards were exchanged; and in one
    moment, from the most ungovernable rage, they became motionless as
    statues. The silence was at length interrupted by an explanation
    of 'By Heaven! my son!' This remark was made from the impulse of
    the moment, and probably struck a chord in the parent's heart that
    let loose all his affections. They retired to another apartment;
    explanations ensued; and a reconciliation was the result.'

Elsewhere Mr. ABBOTT describes the gambling-houses of Paris, 'those dens
of iniquity,' as he terms them. 'The varied scenes of frantic joy and
human debasement,' he writes, 'which I witnessed at FRASCATI'S, were truly
appalling. The extremes of excitement were as powerfully exhibited in the
loser of twenty francs as in the man who had lost his twenty thousand.'
The annexed sketch of the lamented career of poor CONWAY, who will be
'freshly remembered' by many of our readers in the Atlantic cities, is
authentic in every particular. It is not without its lesson, in more
regards than one:

    'I find I have neglected to mention an actor, who stood
    sufficiently forward, both by his position and his misfortunes, to
    be entitled to a respectful notice; I mean Mr. CONWAY. He was said
    to be the illegitimate offspring of a distinguished nobleman; but
    whether his own pride prevented his making advances, and he was
    resolved to lay the foundation of his own fame and fortune, or
    whether he met with a check upon his natural feelings from one who
    was bound to support him, I know not; but, gifted as he was with a
    commanding person, a most gentlemanlike deportment, and advantages
    peculiarly adapted for the stage, it is no wonder that the
    histrionic art held forth inducements and hopes of obtaining a
    brighter position than any other career open to him, without the
    aid of pecuniary means, and the patronage which was withheld from
    him. He made his appearance in 1813, the season previous to KEAN,
    in the character of 'Alexander the Great.' He met with a very
    flattering reception, and produced a great effect upon the fair
    sex. Indeed, the actors, who are upon these occasions lynx-eyed,
    could not avoid their remarks upon a certain Duchess, who never
    missed one of his performances, and appeared to take the deepest
    interest in his success. CONWAY was upward of six feet in height.
    He was deficient in strong intellectual expression, yet he had the
    reputation of being very handsome. His head was too small for his
    frame, and his complexion too light and sanguine for the profound
    and varied emotions of deep tragedy. There was a tinge of
    affectation in his deportment, which had the effect of creating
    among many a strong feeling of prejudice against him. His bearing
    was always gentlemanly, and with the exception of a slight
    superciliousness of manner, amiable to every body; and his talent,
    though not of the highest order, was still sufficiently prominent
    to enable him to maintain a distinguished position. And yet this
    man, with so little to justify spleen, was literally, from an
    unaccountable prejudice, driven from the stage by one of the
    leading weekly journals, edited by a gentleman whose biting satire
    was death to those who had the misfortune to come under his lash.
    In complete disgust, he retired from the boards, and filled the
    humble situation of prompter at the Haymarket-Theatre, but
    afterward left for the United States, where he became a great
    favorite. But the canker was at his heart. He again quitted the
    stage, and prepared himself for the Church; but there again he was
    foiled. The ministers of our holy religion refused to receive him,
    not from any moral stain upon his character, but because he had
    been an actor! What is to become of the priesthood, who in the
    early periods were the only actors, and selected scriptural
    subjects for representation? He left in a packet for Savannah,
    overwhelmed with misery and disappointment. 'Ushered into the
    world by a parent who would not acknowledge him; driven out of it
    in the belief that he was the proscribed of Heaven!' At the moment
    they were passing the bar at Charleston, he threw himself
    overboard. Efforts were made to save him; a settee was thrown over
    for him to cling to until they could adopt more decisive measures
    for his rescue. He saw the object; but his resolution was taken.
    He waved his hand, and sunk to rise no more. I have reason to
    believe, that the gentleman to whom I have alluded as having made
    such fearful use of his editorial powers, felt deep remorse when
    the news of his ill-timed death arrived. He also is now no more!
    Poor CONWAY! Had he possessed more nerve, he might still have
    triumphed over the unkindness of his fate:

      'Who has not known ill fortune, never knew
      Himself or his own virtue.'

In the same chapter we find a bit of artistical grouping in a historical
picture, which the reader will agree with us is well worthy of
preservation:

    'The world never witnessed such powerful scenes of exciting
    interest as took possession of Great Britain about this period.
    The people were drunk with enthusiasm. One victory followed so
    rapidly on the heels of another, that they had not time to sober
    down. The peninsular campaign had closed, and the hitherto sacred
    soil of France was invaded. The restoration of legitimacy, and the
    momentary enthusiasm of the French in favor of their exiled
    monarch, disturbed the intellects of half mankind. The magnificent
    entrée of LOUIS the Eighteenth into London from Heartwell Park,
    where he had resided for some years, almost conveyed the idea that
    it was his own capital he was entering, after his long and weary
    exile. The silken banner with the _fleur de lis_ flaunting from
    the walls of Devonshire-House and all the neighboring mansions in
    Piccadilly; immense cavalcades of gentlemen superbly mounted, all
    wearing the white cockade; the affectionate sympathy and profound
    respect shown by all classes toward the illustrious representative
    of the Bourbons, was touching in the extreme. On his route from
    Heartwell, and through Stanmore, troops of yeomanry turned out to
    give him an honorable escort; and what could be _more_ honorable
    than the voluntary attendance of the farmers who represented the
    very bone and sinew of the country? The large portly figure of the
    KING perfectly disabused JOHN BULL of the long-cherished idea that
    Frenchmen lived entirely upon frogs. Even that particular fact
    interested them, and repeated huzzas greeted him throughout the
    whole of his route to London. On his arrival at Guillon's Hotel in
    Albermarle-street, which had been most splendidly prepared for his
    reception, His Royal Highness the PRINCE REGENT received him with
    that delicate attention so worthy of his high and gallant bearing;
    and there LOUIS must have met with one of the most touching scenes
    that ever thrilled the human heart. One hundred and fifty of the
    ancient noblesse were waiting, after years of hopeless
    expectation, to greet the head of that illustrious house, the
    recollection of whose sufferings awakened the most painful
    feelings. Not one of them but had shared in the horrors of that
    bloody revolution; and not one of them but truly felt that the
    happiness of that moment repaid them for all their sufferings.'

A rich specimen of the pompous ignorance sometimes exhibited by theatrical
managers is afforded in the following anecdote, which has appeared in
England, but which we are sure will be relished by our readers. It may
seem extraordinary that a manager should be such an ignoramus; but 'half
the actors on the English stage,' says a recent writer, 'dare not address
a gentleman a note, lest they should 'show their hands:''

    'WHEN I first became a member of Covent-Garden, Mr. FAWCETT held
    the reins of management, in consequence of the retirement of Mr.
    KEMBLE from that position. He had experience to guide him, but he
    unfortunately possessed a dictatorial manner, and a want of that
    refinement and education which had so distinguished his great
    predecessor. In speaking of his public position, however, let me
    pay homage to his private virtues. He was a tender husband, an
    affectionate father, and a warm friend. During my first season a
    play was produced called the '_Students of Salamanca_.' The author
    was Mr. JAMIESON, a member of the bar, who had been particularly
    successful in several light pieces produced at the Haymarket. Mr.
    JONES and myself were 'The Students,' and it occurred to me in my
    character to say, 'My danger was imminent.' These words had
    scarcely passed my lips, when a dark and lowering look dimmed the
    countenance of the manager. I saw that something was wrong, but
    was quite at a loss to guess the cause. At the end of the scene,
    unwilling to mortify me in the presence of the company, he
    beckoned me aside, and said: 'Young man, do you know what you
    said?' I changed color, feeling that something fearful had
    occurred. I replied, very much agitated, that I was not aware of
    any error. 'I thought so! Do you know where you are? You are in
    _London_, not in Bath!' The fact was so self-evident that I did
    not attempt to disprove it. 'You will be delivered up to scorn and
    contempt; the critics will immolate you; the eyes of this great
    metropolis are fixed upon you. I thought you were a well-educated
    young man, but I have been deceived--grossly deceived!' The effect
    of this tirade may be more easily conceived than described. My
    face flushed, my heart beat, and I at length mustered courage to
    say, 'For heaven's sake, Sir, pray tell me; I am extremely
    sorry--deeply regret--but pray tell me!' The kindness of his
    disposition got the better of his pedantry, and seeing the
    agitation under which I was really suffering, he replied: 'Do you
    remember that you said your danger was _imminent_'? Now, Sir,
    there is no such word in the English language: it is _eminent!!_'
    Need I mention the unbounded relief this explanation gave me? I
    quietly suggested the difference of their significations, and was
    never after troubled with any corrections. He was a man of
    sterling qualities, somewhat like a melon, as his friend COLMAN
    said; 'rough without, smooth within.''

In the way of a hoax, we remember nothing more cleverly performed, than
the rather cruel one whose execution is pleasantly recorded below:

    'THERE was a lady attached to the Worthing Theatre, (mark me,
    reader, I did not say attached to _me_,) who was very eccentric,
    and who was, 'small blame to her,' as the Irishman says, also very
    susceptible. I was on very intimate terms with Mr. HARLEY, who was
    then at Worthing; and one day, while quietly dining together, we
    mutually agreed that there was a fickleness about this lady which
    deserved some reproof. We were really liberal in our feelings, and
    would not have objected to her shooting an extra dart
    occasionally; but it was not to be borne that she should let fly a
    whole quiver at once. We had observed that by way of having two or
    more strings to her bow, she had got up a flirtation with the
    leader of the band, a most respectable man by the way, and of
    considerable talent. After giving the affair all due
    consideration, we decided upon a mock-duel, in which I was to
    personate one of the heroes, my rival being the aforesaid leader.
    We carefully and ostentatiously avoided all appearance of
    communication, and in such a way that it always reached her
    knowledge. Thus by gentle innuendoes she discovered that something
    serious was in contemplation, and of course she was not a little
    flattered, as she was the object of dispute. Our duelling-pistols
    were one day ostentatiously paraded, and evident anxiety took
    possession of the company, who were carefully excluded from the
    secret. The following morning at five o'clock we each left our
    lodgings, accompanied by our seconds, the rain pouring in
    torrents. HARLEY then went to the lodgings of the frail or rather
    fair one, knocked at the door most violently, and at length she
    appeared at the window, in evident alarm. He urged her if she had
    the feelings of a woman immediately to accompany him, and prevent
    murder; briefly stating, that her 'beauties were the cause and
    most accursed effect.' In a state of real excitement, mixed up
    with woman's vanity, she rushed out of the house, and accompanied
    that wag of wags. A white beaver hat, sweet emblem of her purity,
    was on her head, and partially concealed her disordered ringlets,
    hastily gathered together. We arranged with HARLEY always to keep
    ourselves a certain distance in advance on the pathway bordering
    the sands. The first thing that occurred was a sudden gust of wind
    which swept the white beaver a considerable distance and covered
    it with mud; her flowing locks then fell upon her alabaster neck,
    and her romantic appearance was perfect. We most cruelly led her
    on a distance of at least two miles, and took our station near
    some lime-kilns, close to the sea. When she was sufficiently near,
    one of the seconds stepped forward and gave the signal by dropping
    a blood-stained handkerchief, prepared for the occasion. Bang!
    bang! went the pistols; when she gracefully sank into the arms of
    HARLEY, who held her in a fine melo-dramatic attitude. The report
    was soon over all the town, and of course in the newspapers. My
    adversary put his arm in a sling, and whenever I happened to be
    near her, in a perfect state of despair I vowed that I could never
    forgive myself for having shot my friend. We mutually repulsed her
    by severe looks whenever she approached us; and she soon left the
    Worthing Theatre to seek for victims of less sensibility in other
    places.'

We once more take our leave of Mr. ABBOTT'S agreeable manuscript volume;
by no means certain, however, that its entertaining pages may not again
tempt us to share with our readers the enjoyment they have afforded us.


GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--Will the author of '_Public
Concert-Singing_' favor us with his address? We are desirous of
communicating with him, although he does _not_ 'find his hastily-jotted
thoughts in the pages of the KNICKERBOCKER,' for reasons which perhaps he
can partly divine from the present number, and which we could impart more
directly in a private note. We agree with him entirely in his views; and
if he will permit us, we will here quote a passage from an article which
we penned upon a subject collateral to his general theme, many years ago,
before we were hampered with the professional '_we_,' and could write out
of our 'company dress.' It is a little sketch of the first public singing,
save that of the church, to which we had ever listened: 'How well do I
remember it! It was at the theatre of a country village; a rough,
barn-like edifice, at which several Stentor-lunged Thespians 'from the
New-York and Philadelphia Theatres' split the ears of the groundlings, and
murdered SHAKSPEARE'S heroes and the King's English. I had been watching
with boyish curiosity the play which had just concluded: the mottled,
patched, yellowish-green curtain had descended upon the personages whose
sorrows were my own; and I was gazing vacantly at the long row of tallow
candles placed in holes bored for the purpose in the stage, and at the two
fiddlers who composed 'the orchestra,' and who were reconnoitering the
house. Presently a small bell was rung, with a jerk. There was a flourish
or two from 'the orchestra;' another tinkle of the bell; and up rose the
faded drapery. An interval of a moment succeeded, during which half of a
large mountain was removed from the scenery, and a piece of forest shoved
up to the ambitious wood that had been aspiring to overtop the Alps. At
length a young lady, whom I had just seen butchered in a most horrid
manner by a villain, came from the side of the stage with a smile, which,
while it displayed her white teeth, wrought the rouge upon her face into
very perceptible corrugations, and made a lowly courtesy. She walked with
measured step three or four times across the stage, in the full blaze of
the flaring candles, smiling again, and hemming, to clear her voice.
Presently a perfect stillness prevailed; 'awed Consumption checked his
chided cough;' every urchin suspended his cat-call; and 'the boldest held
his breath for a time.' Our vocalist looked at the leader of the orchestra
and his fellow-fiddlers, and commenced, in harmony with their instruments.
How touching was that song! I shall never have my soul so enrapt again.
That _freshness_ of young admiration possessed my spirit which can come
but once. The air was '_The Braes of Balquither_,' a charming melody,
meetly wedded to the noble lines of TANNEHILL; and enthusiasm was at its
height when the singer had concluded the following stanza, almost sublime
in its picturesque beauty:

  'When the rude wintry wind wildly raves round our dwelling,
  And the roar of the lion on the night-breeze is swelling,
  Then so merrily we'll sing, while the storm rattles o'er us,
  Till the dear shealing ring with the light-lilting chorus!'

The air was old as the hills, but like all Scottish melodies, as lasting
too. To every body the songs of Scotland are grateful; and the universal
attachment to them arises from their beautiful simplicity, deep pathos,
and unaffected, untrammelled melody. The romantic sway of the songs of
Scotland over her sons when 'far awa' is to me no marvel. If they possess
the power to thrill or to subdue the hearts of those who have never
stepped upon the soil of that glorious country, is it at all surprising
that they should exert a powerful influence over the native-born, who
associate those airs with the purple heath, the blue loch, the hazy
mountain-top, and the valley sleeping below?

  'What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed,
    What wild vows falter on the tongue,
  When 'Scots wha ha' wi' WALLACE bled,'
    Or 'Auld Lang Syne' is sung!'

The association however is touching, not _alone_ because it awakens old
recollections, but because the music is _natural_; it is the language of
the heart. Affectation has not interpopolated tortuous windings and trills
and shakes, to mar its beauty, and to clip the full melodious notes of
their fair proportions. It is pleasant to think that fashion, though never
so potent, can neither divert nor lessen the popular attachment to the
simpler melodies. We have the authority of the WOODS, WILSON, SINCLAIR,
POWER, and other eminent artists for stating that 'Black-eyed Susan,'
'John Anderson my Jo,' 'The Last Rose of Summer,' and kindred airs, could
always 'bring down the house,' no matter what the antagonistical musical
attraction might be. We could wish that the VENERABLE TAURUS, or 'OLD
BULL,' as many persons call him, would take a hint from this. Let him try
it once; and we venture to say that no one, however uninitiated, will
again retire from his splendid performances as a country friend of ours
did lately, assigning as a reason: 'I waited till about ha'-past nine; and
_then_ he hadn't got done _tunin' his fiddle_!' A touch of 'music for the
general heart' would have enchained him till morning. CHRISTOPHER NORTH,
we perceive, in the last BLACKWOOD, fully enters into the spirit of our
predilection. He has just returned from a concert of fashionable music,
where he 'tried to faint, that he might be carried out, but didn't know
how to do it,' and was compelled to sit with compressed lips, and listen
to 'sounds from flat shrill signorinas, quavering to distraction,' for two
long hours. When he gets _home_, however, he 'feeds fat his grudge'
against modern musical affectations. Let us condense a few of his
objurgations:

    'It is a perfect puzzle to us by what process the standard of
    music has become so lowered, as to make what is ordinarily served
    up under that name be received as the legitimate descendant of
    harmony. There is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous,
    and this entrancing art, it seems, has taken it; sorely
    dislocating its graceful limbs, and injuring its goodly
    proportions in the unseemly escapade. We hate your crashing,
    clumsy chords, and utterly spit at and defy chromatic passages,
    from one end of the instrument to the other, and back again;
    flats, sharps, and most appropriate 'naturals,' spattered all over
    the page. The essential spirit of discord seems to be let loose on
    our modern music. Music to soothe! the idea is obsolete. There is
    music to excite, much to irritate one, and much more to drive a
    really musical soul stark mad; but none to soothe, save that which
    is drawn from the hiding-places of the past. There is no repose,
    no refreshment to the mind, in our popular compositions. There is
    to us more of touching pathos, heart-thrilling expression, in some
    of the old psalm-tunes, feelingly played, than in a whole batch of
    modernisms. The strains go _home_, and the 'fountains of the great
    deep are broken up;' the great deep of unfathomable feeling, that
    lies far, far below the surface of the world-hardened heart; and
    as the unwonted yet unchecked tear starts to the eye, the softened
    spirit yields to their influence, and shakes off the moil of
    earthly care; rising, purified and spiritualized, into a clearer
    atmosphere.'

       *       *       *       *       *

We often hear of odd things happening in consequence of mistakes in
orthography, but seldom of any benefit accruing therefrom to the
orthoöpist. But a friend mentioned to us a little circumstance the other
day, which would seem to prove that it does a man good sometimes to spell
somewhat at variance with old JOHNSON. In a village not far hence lived a
man known by the name of BROKEN JONES. He had dissipated a large fortune
in various law-suits; had become poor and crazy; and at last, like another
PEEBLES, his sole occupation consisted in haunting the courts, lawyers'
offices, and other scenes of his misfortunes. To judge and attorneys he
was a most incorrigible bore; to the latter especially, from whom he was
continually soliciting opinions on cases which had long been 'settled,'
and carried to the law-ledgers, where they were only occasionally hunted
up as precedents in the suit of perhaps some other destined victims. As
JONES hadn't a cent of money left, it was of course impossible for him to
obtain any more 'opinions;' but this didn't cure him of his law-mania. One
morning he entered the office of lawyer D----, in a more excited state
than he had exhibited for a long time, and seating himself _vis-a-vis_
with _his_ victim, requested his 'opinion' on one of the 'foregone
conclusions' already mentioned. D---- happening at the moment to be very
busy, endeavored to get rid of his visiter, and contrived various
expedients for that purpose. But JONES was not in a mood to be trifled
with. 'I came, 'Squire,' said he, 'to get your opinion in writing on this
case, and I will have it before I leave the room, if I sit here till the
day of judgment!' The lawyer looked upon his visiter, while a thought of
forcible ejectment passed through his brain; but the glaring eye and stout
athletic frame which met his gaze, told him that such a course would be
extremely hazardous. At length the dinner-bell rang. A bright thought
struck him; and putting on his coat and hat, he took JONES gently by the
arm: 'Come,' said he, 'go and dine with me.' 'No!' said the latter,
fiercely; 'I'll never dine again until I get what I came for.' The lawyer
was in a quandary, and at length, in very despair, he consented to forego
his dinner and give his annoyer the desired opinion. 'Well, well, JONES,'
said he, soothingly, 'you shall have it;' and gathering pens, ink and
paper, he was soon seated at the table, while JONES, creeping on tiptoe
across the room, stood peeping over his shoulder. The lawyer commenced:
'My oppinion in the case----' 'Humph!' said the lunatic, suddenly seizing
his hat, and turning on his heel, '_I wouldn't give a d--n for your
opinion with two p's!_' · · · MANY of our public as well as private
correspondents seem to have been not a little interested in the articles
on _Mind and Instinct_, in late numbers of this Magazine. A valued friend
writing from Maryland, observes: 'The collection of facts by your
contributor is very industrious, their array quite skilful, and the
argument very strong. I think, however, that if I had time I could pick
several flaws in the reasoning, or rather erect a very good
counter-argument, founded principally upon the fact that the intelligence
of animals is generally as great in early youth as it is in the prime of
their beasthood. The author might have added to his list of facts, an
account which I read when a boy, of the practice of the baboons in
Caffraria, near the orange-orchards. They arrange themselves in a row from
their dens to the orange-trees. One then ascends the tree, plucks the
oranges, and throws them to the next baboon, and he to the next, and so on
throughout the whole file; they standing some fifty yards apart. In this
manner they quickly strip a tree, and at the same time are safe from being
all surprised at once. The early French missionaries in Canada, also
asserted that the squirrels of that region, having denuded the country on
one side of the big lake, of nuts, used to take pieces of birch bark, and
hoisting their tails for canvass, float to the other side for their
supply.' We have been struck with a passage in a powerful article upon
'_The Hope that is within Us_,' in a late foreign periodical, wherein the
fruitful theme of our correspondent is touched upon. 'If matter,' says the
writer, 'be incapable of consciousness, as JOHNSON so powerfully argues in
_Rasselas_, then the _animus_ of brutes must be an _anima_, and
immaterial; for the dog and the elephant not merely exhibit
'consciousness,' but a 'half-reasoning' power. And if it be true, as
JOHNSON maintains, that immateriality of necessity produces immortality,
then the poor Indian's conclusion is the most logical,

  'Who thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
  His faithful dog shall bear him company.'

The truth is, that we must depend upon _revelation_ for an assurance of
immortality; which promises, however, the resurrection of the body, as
philosophy is unequal to its demonstration, and modern researches into
animal life have rendered the proof more difficult than heretofore.' By
the by, 'speaking of animals:' there is a letter from LEMUEL GULLIVER in
the last number of BLACKWOOD, describing a meeting of 'delegates from the
different classes of consumers of _oats_, held at the Nag's-Head inn at
Horsham.' The business of the meeting was opened by a young RACER, who
expressed his desire to promote the interests of the horse-community, and
to promote any measure which might contribute to the increase of the
consumption of oats, and improve the condition of his fellow quadrupeds.
He considered the horse-interest greatly promoted by the practice of
sowing wild oats, which he warmly commended. A HACKNEY-COACH HORSE
declared himself in favor of the _sliding-scale_, which he understood to
mean the wooden pavement. Things went much more smoothly wherever it was
established. He contended for the abolition of nose-bags, which he
designated as an intolerable nuisance; urged the prohibition of chaff with
oats, as unfit for the use of able-bodied horses; and indeed evinced the
truth of his professions, that he 'yielded to no horse in an anxious
desire to promote the true interests of the horse-community.' An OLD
ENGLISH HUNTER impressed upon the young delegates the good old adage of
'Look before you leap,' and urged them to go for 'measures, not men.' A
STAGE HORSE 'congratulated the community upon the abolition of
bearing-reins, those grievous burdens upon the necks of all free-going
horses; and he trusted the time would soon arrive when the blinkers would
also be taken off, every corn-bin thrown open, and every horse his own
leader.' Several other steeds, in the various ranks of horse-society,
addressed the meeting. 'Resolutions, drawn by two DRAY-HORSES, embodying
the supposed grievances of the community, were finally agreed upon, and a
petition, under the hoof of the president, founded upon them, having been
prepared and ordered to be presented to the House of Commons by the
members for Horsham, the meeting separated, and the delegates returned to
their respective stables.' · · · WHAT habitual theatre or opera-goer has
not been tempted a thousand times to laugh outright, and quite in the
wrong place, at the incongruities, the inconsistencies, the mental and
physical _catachreses_ of the stage, which defy illusion and destroy all
vraisemblance? A London sufferer in this kind has hit off some of the
salient points of these absurdities in a few 'Recollections of the Opera:'

  'I'VE known a god on clouds of gauze
    With patience hear a people's prayer,
  And bending to the pit's applause,
    Wait while the priest repeats the air.

  I've seen a black-wig'd Jove hurl down
    A thunder-bolt along a wire,
  To burn some distant canvass town,
    Which--how vexatious!--won't catch fire.

  I've known a tyrant doom a maid
    (With trills and _roulades_ many a score)
  To instant death! She, sore afraid,
    Sings: and the audience cries 'Encore!'

  I've seen two warriors in a rage
    Draw glist'ning swords and, awful sight!
  Meet face to face upon the stage
    To sing a song, but not to fight!

  I've heard a king exclaim 'To arms!'
    Some twenty times, yet still remain;
  I've known his army 'midst alarms,
    Help by a bass their monarch's strain.

  I've known a hero wounded sore,
    With well-tuned voice his foes defy;
  And warbling stoutly on the floor,
    With the last flourish fall and die.

  I've seen a mermaid dress'd in blue;
    I've seen a cupid burn a wing;
  I've known a Neptune lose a shoe;
    I've heard a guilty spectre sing.

  I've seen, spectators of a dance,
    Two Brahmins, Mahomet, the Cid,
  Four Pagan kings, four knights of France,
    Jove and the Muses--scene Madrid!'

       *       *       *       *       *

The leading paper in the present number will not escape the attention nor
fail to win the admiration of the reader. The description of the _Ascent
of Mount Ętna_ by our eminent artist, is forcible and graphic in the
extreme. It will derive additional interest at this moment from the recent
eruption of this renowned volcano, which still continued at the last
advices, and by which already seventy persons had lost their lives. If our
metropolitan readers would desire a _due_ impression of the magnificent
scene which our correspondent has described, let them drop in at the rooms
of the National Academy of Design, where they will find the Burning
Mountain, as seen from Taormina, depicted in all its vastness and
grandeur; and not only this, but the noble series of allegorical pictures,
heretofore noticed at large in this Magazine, called '_The Voyage of
Life_,' representing Childhood, Youth, Manhood, and Old Age; '_Angels
ministering to Christ in the Wilderness_,' a picture that has an horizon,
and an aėrial gradation toward the zenith, which alone, to say nothing of
the figures, and the composition itself as a study, would richly repay a
visit; '_The Past and the Present_,' two most effective scenes, especially
the second, which is overflowing with the mingled graces of poetry and
art; a glorious composition, '_An Italian Scene_,' of which we shall speak
hereafter; as well as of the view of '_Ruined Aqueducts in the Campagna di
Roma_,' fading into dimness toward the imperial city, and of '_The Notch
in the White Mountains_' of New-Hampshire. _Apropos_: we perceive by a
letter from an American at Rome, in one of the public journals, that
THORWALDSEN, the great sculptor, was an enthusiastic admirer of Mr. COLE'S
pictures, particularly of his 'Voyage of Life,' which he pronounced
'original, and new in art.' 'He could talk of nothing else,' says the
writer, 'for a long time; and every time he speaks of him, he adds: '_Ma
che artista, che grand' artista, quel vostro compatriota! Che fantasia!
quanto studio della natura!_' 'But what an artist, what a great artist, is
this countryman of yours! What fancy, what study of nature!' · · · WE are
aware of a pair of 'bonny blue een' swimming in light, that will 'come the
married woman's eye' over a kind but most antiquarian husband, when the
following is read, some two weeks from now, in their 'little parlor' in a
town of the far west. It reaches us in the MS. of a Boston friend: 'Old
Colonel W----, formerly a well-known character in one of our eastern
cities, was remarkable for but one passion out of the ordinary range of
humanity, and that was for buying at auction any little lot of trumpery
which came under the head of 'miscellaneous,' for the reason that it
couldn't be classified. Though close-fisted in general, he was continually
throwing away his money by fives and tens upon such trash. In this way he
had filled all the odd corners in his dwelling and out-houses with a
collection of nondescript articles, that would have puzzled a philosopher
to tell what they were made for, or to what use they could ever be put.
This however, was but a secondary consideration with the Colonel; for he
seldom troubled his head about such articles after they were once fairly
housed. Not so with his wife however, who was continually remonstrating
against these purchases, which served only to clutter up the house, and as
food for the mirth of the domestics. But the Colonel, though he often
submitted to these remonstrances of his better-half, couldn't resist his
passion; and so he went on adding from week to week to his heap of
miscellanies. One day while sauntering down the street, he heard the full,
rich tones of his friend C----, the well-known auctioneer, and as a matter
of course stepped in to see what was being sold. On the floor he observed
a collection that looked as if it might have been purloined from the garret
of some museum, and around which a motley group was assembled; while on the
counter stood the portly auctioneer, in the very height of a mock-indignant
remonstrance with his audience. 'Nine dollars and ninety cents!' cried the
auctioneer. 'Gentlemen, it is a shame, it is barbarous, to stand by and
permit such a sacrifice of property! Nine dol-_lars_ and ninety---- Good
morning, Colonel! A magnificent lot of--of--_antiques_--and all going for
nine dollars and ninety cents. Gentlemen, you'll never see another such
lot; and all going--going--for nine dollars and ninety cents. Colonel
W----, can _you_ permit such a sacrifice?' The Colonel glanced his eye over
the lot, and then with a nod and a wink assured him he could not. The next
instant the hammer came down, and the purchase was the Colonel's, at ten
dollars. As the articles were to be paid for and removed immediately, the
Colonel lost no time in getting a cart, and having seen every thing packed
up and on their way to his house, he proceeded to his own store, chuckling
within himself that _now_ at least he had made a bargain at which even his
wife couldn't grumble. In due time he was seated at the dinner-table, when
lifting his eyes, he observed a cloud upon his wife's brow. 'Well, my
dear?' said he, inquiringly. 'Well?' repeated his wife; 'it is _not_ well,
Mr. W.; I am vexed beyond endurance. You know C----, the auctioneer?'
'Certainly,' replied the Colonel; 'and a very gentlemanly person he is
_too_.' '_You_ may think so,' rejoined the wife, 'but I _don't_, and I'll
tell you why. A few days ago I gathered together all the trumpery with
which you have been cluttering up the house for the last twelve-month, and
sent it to Mr. C----, with orders to sell the lot immediately to the
highest bidder for cash. He assured me he would do so in all this week, at
farthest, and pay over the proceeds to my order. And here I've been
congratulating myself on two things: first, on having got rid of a most
intolerable nuisance; and secondly, on receiving money enough therefor to
purchase that new velvet hat you promised me so long ago. And now what do
you think? This morning, about an hour ago, _the whole load came back
again, without a word of explanation_!' The Colonel looked blank for a
moment, and then proceeded to clear up the mystery. But the good VROUW was
pacified only by the promise of a ten-dollar note beside that in the hands
of the auctioneer; on condition, however, that she should never mention
it.' Of course she kept her word! · · · HOW seldom it is that one
encounters a good sonnet! Most sonnetteers of our day are like
feeble-framed men walking in heavy armor; 'the massy weight on't galls
their laden limbs.' We remember two or three charming sonnets of
LONGFELLOW'S; PARK BENJAMIN has been unwontedly felicitous in some of his
examples; and H. T. TUCKERMAN has excelled in the same poetical rōle. Here
is a late specimen of his, from the 'Democratic Review,' which we regard
as very beautiful:


DESOLATION.

  THINK ye the desolate must live apart,
    By solemn vows to convent walls confined?
  Ah! no; with men may dwell the cloistered heart,
    And in a crowd the isolated mind:
  Tearless behind the prison-bars of fate
    The world sees not how sorrowful they stand,
  Gazing so fondly through the iron grate
    Upon the promised, yet forbidden land;
  Patience, the shrine to which their bleeding feet,
    Day after day, in voiceless penance turn;
  Silence the holy cell and calm retreat
    In which unseen their meek devotions burn;
  Life is to them a vigil that none share,
  Their hopes a sacrifice, their love a prayer.

       *       *       *       *       *

'OUR Ancient,' the editor of the handsome 'Lady's and Gentleman's
Magazine' hight '_The Columbian_,' (which is to run a brisk competition,
as we learn, with the other 'pictorials,' GODEY'S, GRAHAM'S, and
SNOWDEN'S,) should have enabled us to speak of it from an examination of
_our own copy_, instead of being obliged to filch an idea of its merits
from the counter of those most obliging gentlemen, Messrs. BURGESS AND
STRINGER. The work is a gay one externally, and spirited internally;
having several good articles from good writers, male and female. One of
the best things in it, however, is the paper on '_Magazine Literature_,'
by the Editor. How many writers, now well known both at home and abroad,
who began and continue their literary career in the KNICKERBOCKER, can
bear testimony to the truth of the following remarks:

    'WE have said that this is the age of magazines; adverting not
    merely to their number, but even more especially to their
    excellence. They are the field, chiefly, in which literary
    reputation is won. Who ever thinks of JOHN WILSON as the learned
    professor, or as the author of bound volumes? Who does not, when
    WILSON'S name is mentioned, instantly call to mind the splendid
    article-writer, the CHRISTOPHER NORTH of Blackwood? CHARLES LAMB
    was long known only as the ELIA of the New Monthly. Most of the
    modern French celebrities; SUE, JANIN, and half a hundred others,
    have made their fame in the _feuilletons_ of the Parisian
    journals; a more decided graft, by the way, than is elsewhere
    seen, of the magazine upon the newspaper. In our own country, how
    many there are whose names are known from the St. Lawrence to the
    Gulf of Mexico, that are as yet innocent of books, but have
    nevertheless contributed largely and well to the growing stock of
    American literature. How many more who are bringing themselves
    into notice by their monthly efforts in the pages of some popular
    magazine. In fact, the magazine is the true channel into which
    talent should direct itself for the acquisition of literary fame.
    The newspaper is too ephemeral; the book is not of sufficiently
    rapid and frequent production. The monthly magazine just hits the
    happy medium, enabling the writer to present himself twelve times
    a year before a host of readers, in whose memories he is thus kept
    fresh, yet allowing him space enough to develope his thought, and
    time enough to do his talent justice in each article. Then, too,
    on the score of emolument, justly recognised now as a very
    essential matter, and legitimately entitled to grave
    consideration, the magazine offers advantages not within the reach
    of either book or newspaper. · · · BUT after all, the great point
    is, that magazines are more read than any other kind of
    publications. They just adapt themselves to the leisure of the
    business man, and the taste of the idler; to the spare half hours
    of the notable housewife and the languid inertia of the
    fashionable lady. They can be dropped into a valise or a
    carpet-bag as a welcome provision for the wants of a journey by
    steam-boat or rail-road, when the country through which the
    traveller passes offers nothing attractive to be seen, or the eyes
    are weary of seeing; they while away delightfully the tedious
    hours of a rainy day in summer, and afford the most pleasant
    occupation through the long evenings of winter.'

Touching the matter of payment for magazine articles: Mr. WILLIS informs
us that many of the American magazines pay to their more eminent
contributors nearly three times the amount for a printed page that is paid
by English magazines to the best writers in Great-Britain; and he
instances GODEY and GRAHAM as paying often twelve dollars a page to their
principal contributors. This refers to _a few_ 'principal' writers only,
as we have good reason to know, having been instrumental in sending
several acceptable correspondents to those publications, who have received
scarcely one-fourth of the sum mentioned. Mr. WILLIS adds, however, that
many good writers write for nothing, and that 'the number of clever
writers has increased so much that there are thousands who can get no
article accepted.' All this is quite true. There is no magazine in America
that has paid so large sums to distinguished native writers as the
KNICKERBOCKER. Indeed, our _most_ distinguished American writer was never
a contributor to any other of our Monthlys than this. The books of this
Magazine show, that independent of the Editor's division of its profits as
joint proprietor, or his salary as editor, (a matter which its publishers
have always kept distinct from, and in all respects unconnected with, the
payments to contributors,) annual sums have heretofore been paid for
literary _matériel_ greater than the most liberal estimate we have seen of
any annual literary payment by our widely-circulated contemporaries. To
the first poet in America, (not to say in the world, at this moment,) we
have repeatedly paid fifty dollars for a single poem, not exceeding, in
any instance, two pages in length; and the cost of prose papers from
sources of kindred eminence has in many numbers exceeded fifteen dollars a
page. Again: we have in several instances paid twice as much for the MS.
of a continuous novel in these pages as the writer could obtain of any
metropolitan book-publisher; and after appearing in volumes, it has been
found that the wide publicity given to the work by the KNICKERBOCKER has
been of greatest service to its popularity, in more than one subsequent
edition. We should add, however, that we have had no lack, at any period,
of excellent articles for our work at moderate prices; while many of our
more popular papers have been entirely gratuitous, unless indeed the
writers consider the honorable reputation which they have established in
these pages as _some_ reward for intellectual exertion. But 'something too
much of this.' We close with a word touching the pictorial features of the
'_Columbian_.' It has four 'plates' proper, with an engraving of the
fashions; is neatly executed by Messrs. HOPKINS AND JENNINGS, and
published by ISRAEL POST, Number Three, Astor-House. · · · SAINT
VALENTINE'S DAY is just at hand; and a pleasant correspondent, in
enclosing us the following lines, begs us to mention the fact, and to
refer to the festivities of the day. We know of _one_ 'festivity' that
will be a very _recherché_ and brilliant affair, on the evening of that
day; namely, '_The Bachelors' Ball_,' to be given with unwonted splendor
at the Astor-House, under the supervision of accomplished managers, whose
taste and liberality have already been abundantly tested. 'Take it as a
matter granted,' says our friend, 'that very many of your lady-readers
will commit matrimony before the year is done; and tell them so plainly;
for it will gratify their palpitating hearts; and even should it not be
true in every individual case, the disappointed ones will never complain
of you for the pleasing delusion; for it was their own fault, of course,
not yours. It behooves you, moreover, as a conservator of the general
weal, to give the young wives that are to be some goodly counsel; and to
aid you in the laudable office of advice-giver, I send you some
appropriate verses, which some fifteen years ago went the rounds of the
press, and met with 'acceptance bounteous.' The moral of the stanzas, I
take it, is unexceptionable, whatever may be said of their execution:'


EPISTLE

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY JUST MARRIED.

  On matrimony's fickle sea
    I hear thou'rt ventured fairly;
  Though young in years, it may not be
    Thy bark is launched too early.
  Each wish of mine to heaven is sent,
    That on the stormy water
  Thou'lt prove a wife obedient,
    As thou hast been a daughter.

  If every wish of mine were bliss,
    If every hope were pleasure,
  Thou wouldst with him find happiness,
    And he in thee a treasure:
  For every wish and hope of mine,
    And every thought and feeling,
  Is for the weal of thee and thine,
    As true as my revealing.

  To please thy husband in all things,
    Forever be thou zealous;
  And bear in mind that Love has wings,
    Then never make him jealous:
  For if Love from his perch once flies,
    How weak are Beauty's jesses!
  In vain might plead thy streaming eyes,
    And thy dishevelled tresses.

  Be prudent in thy thoughts of dress,
    Be sparing of thy parties;
  Where fashion riots in excess,
    O! nothing there of heart is!
  And can its palling sweets compare
    With love of faithful bosom?
  Then of the fatal tree beware,
    There's poison in its blossom!

  Each thought and wish in him confide,
    No secret from him cherish;
  Whenever thou hast aught to hide,
    The better feelings perish.
  In whatsoe'er ye do or say,
    O never with him palter;
  Remember too, thou saidst 'obey'
    Before the holy altar.

  Bear and forbear, for much thou'lt find
    In married life to tease ye,
  And should thy husband seem unkind,
    Averse to smile, or please ye,
  Think that amid the cares of life
    His troubles fret and fear him;
  Then smile as it becomes a wife,
    And labor well to cheer him.

  Aye answer him with loving word,
    Be each tone kindly spoken,
  For sometimes is the holy cord
    By angry jarring broken.
  Then curb thy temper in its rage,
    And fretful be thou never;
  For broken once, a fearful change
    Frowns over both forever.

  Upon thy neck light hang the chain,
    For Hymen now hath bound ye,
  O'er thee and thine may pleasure reign,
    And smiling friends surround ye.
  Then fare ye well, and may each time
    The sun smiles, find ye wiser:
  Pray kindly take the well-meant rhyme
    Of thy sincere adviser.

       *       *       *       *       *

Through the kindness of Messrs. MASON AND TUTTLE, Nassau-street, (who
import the _originals_ for immediate circulation to American subscribers,)
we have our copies of the foreign Monthlys, as well as of the 'Edinburgh,'
'Foreign,' and 'Quarterly' Reviews for the current quarter. The
'Quarterly, so savage and tartarly,' has a notice of the '_Change for
American Notes_,' which is not conceived in the kindest spirit toward this
country. It reviews PRESCOTT'S late work, however, at great length, and
welcomes it with cordial commendation. Among other 'good words,' the
reviewer observes: 'He is full and copious, without being prolix and
wearisome; his narrative is flowing and spirited, sometimes very
picturesque; his style is pure, sound English.' In conclusion, the
reviewer says: 'We close with expressing our satisfaction that Mr.
PRESCOTT has given us an opportunity at this time of showing our deep
sympathy, the sympathy of kindred and of blood, with Americans who like
himself do honor to our common literature. Mr. PRESCOTT may take his place
among the real good English writers of history in modern times.' The
'Foreign Quarterly' opens with a paper upon '_The Poets and Poetry of
America_,' ostensibly based upon Mr. GRISWOLD'S book. It is not altogether
a review, however, but a very coarse and evidently malignant tirade
against America, her people, institutions, manners, customs, literature;
every thing, in short, that she is and that she contains. We annex a hasty
synopsis of the _critical_ portion of the article in question. HALLECK is
'praised, and that highly too.' His 'Marco Bozzaris' is pronounced 'a
master-piece,' and the 'most perfect specimen of versification in American
literature;' and himself as possessing 'a complete knowledge of the
musical mysteries of his art.' A quotation is made, with much laud, from
his 'RED-JACKET,' but the lines are spoiled by two gross errors; one in
the last line of the third, and the other in the first line of the fifth
stanza. The highest encomiums are justly bestowed upon BRYANT, as a
'purely American poet,' who 'treats the works of Nature with a religious
solemnity, and brings to the contemplation of her grandest relations a
pure and serious spirit. His poetry is reflective but not sad; grave in
its depths but brightened in its flow by the sunshine of the imagination.
He never paints on gauze; he is always earnest, always poetical; his
manner is every where graceful and unaffected.' The illustrative quotation
is from 'An Evening Reverie,' written by Mr. BRYANT for the KNICKERBOCKER.
LONGFELLOW is pronounced to be 'unquestionably the first of American
poets; the most thoughtful and chaste; the most elaborate and finished.
His poems are distinguished by severe intellectual beauty, by dulcet
sweetness of expression, a wise and hopeful spirit, and a complete command
over every variety of rhythm. They are neither numerous nor long, but of
that compact texture which will last for posterity.' SPRAGUE is
represented as having in certain of his poems imitated SHAKSPEARE and
COLLINS rather too closely for all three to be original. 'PIERPONT is
crowded with coincidences which look very like _plagiarisms_;' 'but,' adds
the reviewer, 'it is reserved for CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN to distance all
plagiarists of ancient and modern times in the enormity and openness of
his thefts. He is MOORE hocused for the American market. His songs are
_rifaciamentos_. The turns of the melody, the flowing of the images, the
scintillating conceits, are all MOORE. Sometimes he steals his very
words.' Mrs. SIGOURNEY'S poetry is said to be characterized by 'feeble
verbosity' and 'lady-like inanity,' and Mrs. OSGOOD is represented as
being in the same category. After quoting certain characteristic lines of
Mr. JOHN NEAL, describing the eye of a poet as '_brimful of water and
light_,' and his forehead as being '_alarmingly bright_,' the reviewer
adds: 'We find a pleasant relief from these distressing hallucinations, in
the poems of ALFRED B. STREET. He is a descriptive poet, and at the head
of his class. His pictures of American scenery are full of _gusto_ and
freshness; sometimes too wild and diffuse, but always true and beautiful.'
So some are praised and some are blamed--'thus runs the world away!' · · ·
WE are made aware, and we would not have our correspondents ignorant of
the fact, that there is a critical eye monthly upon our pages, that is
keen to discover errors (as well as beauties) in language and construction
of sentences. See: 'By the by, what a miserable language is our English in
some respects; so awkward, so incompact! Look at the phrase 'unheard of,'
and compare it with the Latin '_inauditus_.' What a pity we were not born
Romans or Greeks, with Yankee notions! Tell your Gotham friends that if
they are speaking of a ruinous _brick_ wall, they must say _dilaterated_,
from 'later,' a brick, and not '_dilapidated_,' from 'lapis,' a stone. One
might as well say a man is 'stoned' to death with brick-bats.' · · · WHAT
sad and startling contrasts are presented to the eye and mind of one who
attentively looks over the illustrated newspapers of the British
metropolis! On one hand, pictures of triumphal processions, arches,
bonfires, illuminations, rich presents, gorgeous equipages, state-beds,
'royal poultry-houses, owleries, and pigeonries,' accompanied by elaborate
descriptions, arrest the attention; on the other, there is a picture of a
city 'Asylum for the Destitute,' where poor naked wretches find a
temporary refuge from the pitiless winter storm without: huddling round a
dim fire, or sunk exhausted upon the straw in the human 'stalls,' or
clutching at their bowls of pauper-soup; a scene whose true character is
enforced by accounts of poor women making shirts for _a farthing apiece_,
a hard day's work; sleeping four in a bed; purchasing with the scanty
pittance tea-leaves to boil over again! Hardly-entreated brothers and
sisters of humanity! not always shall the glaring inequality that
surrounds you, crush your spirits to the earth! · · · THERE is a pleasant
pen in our metropolitan '_Aurora_,' which occasionally dashes off
sententious paragraphs that flash and sparkle like snow-crust in a
moon-lit night in winter. There is evidently a FOSTER-ing hand over its
columns; and _through_ them (let us add, as it is _that_ of which we
especially wish to speak,) over the reputation of Mr. WILLIS. The remarks
in a late number of that journal, under the head of '_Mr. Willis's
Defence_' against a scurrilous attack on his private character in a
down-eastern print, were equally just and felicitous. Had it been
generally known in his native town who was the instigator of that attack,
we have good authority for saying that, gross as it was, Mr. WILLIS would
have considered it utterly beneath his notice. As it was, however, he
deemed it not amiss at one and the same time to punish skulking envy and
impotent malignity; to vindicate his reputation with his townsmen against
unprovoked calumny; and to render the repetition of any obnoxious remarks
from the same source altogether 'of none effect' and unworthy of heed.
This he accomplished by his 'Defence' and the 'terrors of the law,' which
speedily produced a satisfactory sample of wholesale word-eating. · · · OF
all the Polichinellos we have ever encountered, we consider '_Punch, or
the London Charivari_,' the best. His fun is exhaustless. He ought to be
knighted and appointed court-jester to King ENNUI. 'Laughter,' he tells
us, 'is a divine faculty. It is one of the few, nay, the only one
redeeming grace in that thunder-cased, profligate old scoundrel JUPITER,
that he sometimes laughs: he is saved from the disgust of all respectable
people by the amenity of a broad grin.' We ourselves hold with the
pleasant LINCOLN RAMBLE: 'I love a hearty laugh; I love to _hear_ a hearty
laugh above all other sounds. It is the music of the heart; the thrills of
those chords which vibrate from no bad touch; the language Heaven has
given us to carry on the exchange of sincere and disinterested
sympathies.' And to the end that 'laughter free and silvery from the heart
may escape the reader, doing rightful honor to PUNCH, and bestowing
cheerfulness and health upon the laughter,' we proceed to present a few
excerpta which arrested our attention in looking over late files. We
suspect that the annexed report of the 'doings of Royalty' in the country
have more than once had a precedent. PRINCE ALBERT is here at
Dayton-Manor, the seat of Sir ROBERT PEEL: 'Her Majesty slept extremely
well; but whether it was the air of Dayton, or the conversation of the
host, did not transpire. At eleven o'clock in the morning, Prince Albert
went out to shoot. The guns were ordered at ten and the game was desired
to be in attendance at half-past. The Prince first went in a boat on the
water, where several ducks were appointed to be in waiting. Having granted
an audience to the whole of them, and unintentionally honored two by
shooting them, though it was another duck who had the distinguished
gratification of being aimed at and missed, his Royal Highness landed. A
numerous meeting of hares and pheasants having been called to pay their
respects to the Prince, the game-keepers forming an outer circle, with
their guns pointed to keep the game well up to the mark, His Royal
Highness shot sixty pheasants, twenty-five head of hares, eight rabbits
and one wood-cock, who would cock his bill opposite the muzzle of
Royalty.' The poetical advertisement of one MOSES, a slop-shop
clothes-man, is pleasantly 'reviewed.' Of his 'Prince ALBERT coats,' PUNCH
says: 'Whatever may be the resemblance between the Prince and the coat,
the similarity certainly ends with the price; one costing thirty shillings
and the other thirty thousand pounds per annum.' Here is a touch at Moses'
sea-coats:

  'These coats for nautical pursuits
  Have qualities no one disputes;
  The very texture of their cloth
  Seems to defy the ocean's wrath:
  And then their form and make as well
  Are suited to the billows' swell.'

What can be happier than the allusion to the fact mentioned in the last
two lines; namely, that the coat is quite a match for the billows, being
as great a swell as any of them? The poet dashes off a few lines on
trowsers, finishing with the following couplet, which is not likely to
encourage purchasers. It is stated, and we dare say truly, that if any one
puts on a pair of MOSES' trowsers he becomes at once an object of general
observation:

  'While oft such cries as these escape;
  Look! there's a figure! there's a shape!'

It is a very natural consequence, no doubt, of disporting one's-self in
doe-skins made for seven-pence a pair; but the cries of 'There's a figure!
there's a shape!' must make the trowsers rather dear to any one who wishes
to walk about peaceably, unmolested by this species of street-criticism.'
Under the head of 'Bolsters for Behindhand Botanists,' we find these
original questions and answers: 'What are the most difficult roots to
extract from the ground?' The cube-root. 'What is the pistil of a flower?'
It is that instrument with which the flower shoots. 'What is meant by the
word stamina?' It means the pluck or courage which enables the flower to
shoot.' 'The reversionary interest of a life-crossing, with retail lucifer
business attached,' is offered by a street-sweeper near the Bank of
England, he having 'prigged vat vasn't his'n, and gone to pris'n.' 'He
effected an irregular transfer at the bank one day, which, whatever his
doubts upon the subject might previously have been, led to his ultimate
conviction.' The 'Comic BLACKSTONE' enlightens us upon one of the 'King's
prerogatives': 'The King is the fountain of justice, from which are
supplied all the leaden reservoirs in Westminster-Hall, and the pumps at
the inferior tribunals.' Among the public inquiries is the following: 'At
a crowded meeting at Islington, on the question of granting a theatrical
license, the papers state that the judges declined at first, but upon the
urgent appeal of an advocate, '_the bench gave way_.' Are we to understand
from this that the opposition fell to the ground?' In 'PUNCH'S Almanac'
for 1844, we find among other side-remarks, the annexed: under May
seventh: 'WASHINGTON IRVING on his way to Madrid as American Ambassador,
is entertained in London, 1842. America takes the hand of Spain, and puts
her best _pen_ into it.' 'June sixth: The first cargo of ice comes from
America, 1843, for the relief of those who had burnt their fingers with
Pennsylvania bonds.' 'Time is money; but it doesn't follow that man is a
capitalist who has a great quantity of it on his hands.' PUNCH'S 'Literary
Intelligence' is very full. From it we gather that the author of the
'Mothers,' 'Wives,' 'Maids,' and 'Daughters' of England has another work
in press, entitled '_The Grandmothers of England_.' 'No grandmother's
education will be complete till she has read and re-read 'The Grandmothers
of England.' The book is the very best guide to oval suction extant.' So
says an '_Evening Paper_.' · · · WE should be glad to be informed of _the
name_ of any real or pretended lover of the turf and its manifold
interests, or of an admirer of one of the most entertaining weekly
journals on this continent, who could ask _more_ than is offered by the
'_Spirit of the Times_' to all new subscribers to that widely-popular
sheet; being no less than any five of those fine large quarto engravings
on steel, from original paintings, of Col. JOHNSON and M'lle AUGUSTA,
among 'us humans,' and among our four-footed friends 'of the lower house,'
Ripton, Confidence, Boston, Wagner, Monarch, Leviathan, Argyle,
Black-Maria, Grey-Eagle, Shark, Hedgeford, John Bascombe, and
Monmouth-Eclipse. On the second day of March a new volume commences; when
we hope that this accredited organ of the sporting world, which has raised
the prices of blood-stock in this country beyond all precedent, and which
in its literary and dramatic departments is without a rival in this or any
other country, will take a long lease of a healthful existence, and go on
'prospering and to prosper.' · · · THE reader will be amused we think with
the '_Veritable Sea-Story_,' told by our friend HARRY FRANCO, in a species
of poetry run mad, in preceding pages. He writes us: 'I send you an epic
poem for the KNICKERBOCKER, founded on facts within my own personal
experience. I mention this lest you should deem it destitute of merit; for
it possesses the greatest merit that any human composition can possess;
namely, truth. And in this respect, if in no other, my poem is beyond
dispute superior to the Iliad and Paradise Lost. However, tastes differ, I
am aware; and you may possibly prefer those two epics to mine! They are
longer, it is true; but then I think it will be conceded, even by the
critics of the POH school, that my metre is sufficiently long, even though
my story is short. While others measure their verse by the 'feet,' I
measure mine by the yard.' · · · D.'S paper, (of Georgia,) so thickly
interlarded with French, and Italian synonymes for far more expressive
English words, reminds us of an old 'ignorant ramus' in the country, who
was always eking out his meaning by three or four familiar Latin terms,
which he almost invariably misapplied. He observed one day to a neighbor,
who was speaking disrespectfully of a deceased townsman, 'Well, he's gone
to be judged. _E pluribus unum_--'speak no evil of the dead'--as the Latin
proverb says!' · · · '_The New World_' enters upon a new year in a very
beautiful dress, and with renewed attractions in all its internal
departments. Its large clear types, impressed upon good paper, are
exceedingly pleasant to the eye, and what they convey to the reader is
equally agreeable to the mind 'studious of novelty' and variety. The
success which it deserves, we are glad to learn it abundantly receives.
The '_Brother Jonathan_' has changed proprietors, cast its old skin, and
comes out as bright and fresh as a June morning. The versatile Mrs. ANN
STEPHENS (a lady of fine intellect, who has produced better prose tales
and home-sketches than any one of her gifted contemporaries) and Messrs.
M'LACHLIN AND SNOW, the resident editors of the 'Jonathan,' discharged
their functions to due public acceptance; but a name so _invariably_
connected with unsuccessful publications that it has come to be justly
regarded as the sure precursor and inevitable cause of failure, was at the
head of the journal as 'principal editor;' and 'down east' editorial-ings,
transmitted by the yard, and endless unreadable tales, claiming a kindred
paternity, gradually 'choked its wholesome growth,' and finally brought it
to a temporary end. The new proprietor however has wisely declined this
'principal' incumbrance; and having secured the services of an able editor
in the person of HENRY C. DEMING, Esq., a gentleman of high literary
distinction, and of popular correspondents, the journal is already, as we
learn, rejoicing in a rapidly-enhancing list of subscribers. Success to
thee, 'BROTHER JONATHAN!' · · · THE '_Yankee Trick_' described by our
Medford (Mass.) correspondent is on file for insertion. It is in _one_ of
its features not unlike the anecdote of an old official Dutchman in the
valley of the Mohawk, who one day stopped a Yankee pedler journeying
slowly through the valley on the Sabbath, and informed him that he must
'put up' for the day; or 'if it vash _neshessary_ dat he should travel, he
must pay de fine for de pass.' It _was_ necessary, it seems; for he told
the Yankee to write the pass, and he would sign it; '_that_ he could do,
though he didn't much write, nor read writin'.' The pass was written and
signed with the Dutchman's hieroglyphics, and the pedler went forth 'into
the bowels of the land, without impediment.' Some six months afterward, a
brother Dutchman, who kept a 'store' farther down the Mohawk, in
'settling' with the pious official, brought in, among other accounts, an
order for twenty-five dollars' worth of goods. 'How ish dat?' said the
Sunday-officer; '_I_ never give no order; let me see him.' The order was
produced; he put on his spectacles and examined it. 'Yaäs, dat ish mine
name, sartain--yaäs; but--_it ish dat d----d Yankee pass_!' · · · OUR
town-readers, many of them, will remember the bird MINO, who was so fond
of chatting in a rich mellow voice with the customers at the old Quaker's
seed-store in Nassau-street. His counterpart may at this moment be seen at
'an hostel' near by; but the associations and language of the modern bird
are very dissimilar. '_How are you?_' is his first salutation; '_do you
smoke?_' his next: '_What'll you drink? Brandy-and water?_--_glass o'
wine?_' It has a most whimsical effect, to hear such anti-temperance
invitations from the bill of a bird, whose bright eye is fixed unwinkingly
upon you. The Washingtonians should 'look out for him.' · · · THE editor
of the _Albion_ has issued to his subscribers a very fine large quarto
engraving, in mezzo-tint by SADD, of HEATH'S celebrated line-engraving of
WASHINGTON. Its size is twenty by twenty-seven inches, and represents the
PATER PATRIĘ in his most elevated character; that of a Chief Magistrate
elevated by the free suffrages of his countrymen, after having voluntarily
laid down his military authority. This print cannot fail to be acceptable
to every reader of the Albion, unless he shall be too narrow-minded to
honor true nobleness and dignity of character in one who by force of
circumstances once stood in a warlike relation to his country. Apropos of
the 'Albion:' is our friend the Editor aware that '_The Evening before the
Wedding_,' published as original in a late issue, was translated for the
KNICKERBOCKER? · · · 'OH dem! dem!' There is on the _tapis_ a new daily
journal, to be called 'THE EXCLUSIVE,' which is to be the very antithesis
of every thing in the 'cheap and vulgar' line; no slanders, no crim.
con.'s, no horrible accidents; 'no nothing' of that sort. The affair is
already creating some excitement among the _beau-monde_. The reputed
editors are literary men of the world, who 'know their way.' Circulars in
gold-edged and perfumed paper are already flying about. _On dit_: that the
carriers are to be dressed in uniform, and deliver the paper in white kid
gloves; that pastiles are to be kept burning in the publication-office, to
disinfect the air of the room of ink and damp sheets; and that only those
of the first respectability and acknowledged standing in gay society, are
permitted to subscribe to or receive the journal at all! · · · HERE is a
rich specimen of _clerical catachresis_, which we derive from an eastern
correspondent: 'Our good dominie gave us on Sunday a sermon on the ocean;
its wonders, its glories, its beauties; its infinity, its profundity, its
mightiness, etc., 'But,' said he, 'what is all this? _It is but a drop in
the bucket of God's infinity!_' I wonder what is outside of it!' · · · IT
is not the wont of the Editor of this Magazine, as those of its readers
who have followed us through twenty-two volumes of the KNICKERBOCKER can
bear witness, to trumpet in its pages the many kind things that are said
of us by the public press; but as a fragment is wanted to fill out this
page; as we are just at the commencement of a new volume; and as we are
more than pleased at the cordiality with which the first number of it has
been received; we shall venture to select from a great number of
testimonials one or two for insertion here, which are the more gratifying,
that they evince the regard in which the 'OLD KNICK.' is held at home, and
by those who have known us the longest and most intimately. The _New-York
Courier and Enquirer_ says of our last number:

    'THIS sterling Monthly is always punctual to a day in its issues,
    promptly appearing with the dawn of the month, though our notices
    of it frequently lag sadly behind it. It is yet, however, by no
    means too late to say that it enters upon the year '44 and its
    twenty-third volume with ability and zeal unabated, and that it is
    yet, as it has been heretofore, by far the handsomest, ablest, and
    most interesting literary Monthly issued in this country. Each
    number contains over a hundred pages, and in the Editor's Table
    alone is often found more matter than the entire body of some of
    its rivals contains. It has a long list of zealous correspondents,
    bound to it not more by interest than affection, and numbering
    among them the most gifted and distinguished writers in the
    country. The 'Quod Correspondence,' a novel which is running
    through the successive numbers, is one of the best works of the
    kind ever written; its scenes possess a deep dramatic interest,
    and throughout the whole, moral principles are clearly and
    powerfully evolved. 'The Idleberg Papers' is the general title of
    another capital series, and the work is otherwise filled with
    excellent prose and generally good poetry. The 'Editor's Table' is
    by far the most racy and entertaining collection of anecdotes,
    humorous and pathetic passages, slight criticisms, etc., to be met
    in any magazine. We cordially commend the old and excellent
    KNICKERBOCKER to the continued love and patronage of the public.'

The _Evening Post_ bestows upon the number praise equally warm and
cordial. It adverts to its typographical appearance, with the remark that
'it is beautifully printed; that even those parts which are put in the
smallest characters are so distinctly impressed that the dimmest eyes may
read them.' It lauds especially the article on 'Descriptive Poetry,' the
'Idleberg Papers,' the 'Sketches of East Florida,' and some of the poetry;
and the editor, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, Esq., is kind enough to add, that
'no part is better than the Editor's Table, which presents as excellent a
Salmagundi as was ever served up.' We scarcely dare claim to have _earned_
these high encomiums; but we are anxious to evince to our subscribers, and
especially to those new friends (and _their_ friends) who have begun the
year with us, that we shall spare no pains to _deserve_ them. It will be
our constant aim not only to _maintain_ the reputation which the
KNICKERBOCKER now sustains, but in return for the _affection_ with which
it seems to be every where regarded, and the liberal patronage which it
has always retained, and which is now generously increased by our friends,
to _enhance_ it by every means in our power. But, to make use of two
French words which have never before been quoted in America, to our
knowledge--'_Nous Verrons!_'

       *       *       *       *       *

.*. OWING to an unlucky accident, at a late hour, a 'LITERARY RECORD' of
several excellent publications, from the following houses in Philadelphia,
New-York, and Boston, is unavoidably omitted from the present number. The
'copy,' however, of the notices is preserved, and they will appear in our
next: LEA AND BLANCHARD, R. P. BIXBY AND COMPANY, M. W. DODD, HARPER AND
BROTHERS, WILEY AND PUTNAM, J. AND H. G. LANGLEY, D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
GEORGE G. CHANNING, J. WINCHESTER, JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY, B. G. TREVETT
AND COMPANY, MARK H. NEWMAN, STANFORD, SWORDS AND COMPANY, LINDSAY AND
BLACKISTON, MORRIS, WILLIS AND COMPANY. In a similar category are some
half dozen subsections of 'Gossip,' (including two or three pleasant
favors from favorite contributors, notice of articles received and filed,
etc.,) which were in type, and which now 'bide their time.'





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